Invisible Touch
by Jubalii
Summary: Scientific achievements, three decades, a man running out of time. How routine bloodwork changes the fate of an entire continent, from north to south.
1. Ch 1: Integra

**Author's Note:** I do love me some  Genesis; proof that you don't have to be handsome at all to sing well. Also, I couldn't bear to let myself post this without having Phil as the story art.

I'm sorry in advance.

* * *

 _Tick. Tick. Tick. Whirrrr…. Tick. Tick. Tick._

Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing felt a muscle in her eyebrow twitch in time with the pendulum of the clock on the wall. She had been sitting in the waiting room for nearly an hour now, and was beginning to grow impatient. She had already catalogued every aspect of the mundane room, from the rubber tree sitting in the corner to the number of squares in the tiled ceiling (thirty-three and a quarter, if she combined the half-panels along the walls). From behind the glass window, she could see the tip of the secretary's blonde bob as she typed away with pink-lacquered nails.

Muffling a huffy sigh, she peered up at the small television mounted on the opposite wall. Its color needed to be corrected; the newswoman's skin was a gaudy yellow-orange color. The woman was talking animatedly about what appeared to be stock prices, her hand waving in the air in time with her voice. But the television was muted, and without subtitles she spoke to no one. The woman stopped speaking and the camera panned away as it cut to a commercial of a bouncing bowl of jellied something, the caption proclaiming, " _Mangia bene! Cioccolato e Mandorla sappori!_ "

"Are all Italians this slow, or just Papists?" she complained under her breath, shifting in the faux leather seat and cringing when it let out an earsplitting set of squeaks.

"Patience," Walter breathed next to her, his lips barely moving. He had one of the magazines from the chipped coffee table on his lap, the page opened to a picture of a woman standing next to a horse. It was all Greek to her, but he seemed to be able to read it, or enough of it that it kept his attention. "Knowing them, they're merely making you wait on purpose."

"And yet they're the ones that insisted I come and go through with this farce," she complained, watching the breeze from the air vent move the rubber tree's leaves. One of them was hitting the chair beside it with little scratching sounds, and it took Integra everything she had to keep from standing up and walking over to rip the leaf off and make it stop. "I can't believe Her Majesty actually _agreed_ to it." Walter's eyes shifted from the page to her and he gave her a longsuffering sort of half-smile.

"It's a show of good faith," he replied, using the exact tone he'd used both on the plane and in the taxi to say the same to her earlier in the day. "To protest something as simple as a psychological test would be to arouse suspicion. I agree with Her Majesty on this," he added promptly, when she tried to argue again. "I think it's harmless, and it'll be over with soon enough." Integra shut her mouth and scowled at his reprimand. It was fine when she had been a little girl, but a grown woman didn't need someone telling her what was and wasn't 'harmless'.

"Read something," he suggested when she didn't respond, turning the page to gaze appreciatively at a tanned Italian model with a generous bust. Integra eyeballed the array of tabloids and magazines spread across the coffee table, but nothing aroused interest. The only other things to read were handheld bibles scattered around the room on end tables and in empty chairs, and she wasn't keen on opening one of those either. Finally she settled on a financial magazine, flipping through it idly to gaze upon stock images of smiling businesspeople in fitted suits and the newest Rolex fashion. It would have been much more interesting if she could have actually read the articles instead of just staring at the pictures.

The door to the office opened with the tinkling of a bell and a pair clomped through it, the carpet doing little to muffle their footsteps. The pair strode to the window and the man rapped on it briskly, his female partner stopping just behind him. Integra gazed at them curiously. They were dressed alike in olive green overalls and black PVC Wellingtons, tool belts slung low on their waists and adding a defined form to otherwise shapeless figures. The man wore thick workman's gloves, but the woman had hers poking out of a side pocket and was barehanded. Her frizzy black mane was pulled back from her face in a low ponytail and she was smacking gum as she crossed her arms and waited. The man had a sparse mustache and deep furrowed lines on his forehead, the veins of his neck sticking out above the round collar of his coveralls.

" _Posso auitarti?_ " the blonde secretary asked as she slid the glass aside, smiling at them with a slightly robotic expression. Her angled bob swung around her cheekbones as she stood up. The man spoke fast and quietly, gesturing to the woman and then pointing somewhere above their heads. The secretary replied in a clipped tone, her left eyebrow arching to disappear into her squared bangs, and the man shrugged in answer. "Ok," she sighed before picking up the phone and dialing with one pink-lacquered nail.

Integra watched the exchange before realizing that the woman was watching _her_ just as closely. Their eyes met and they were at a standstill until the woman's deep brown ones slid away lazily. She spoke to her partner, and Integra would have ignored them if she hadn't caught the 'Hellsing' at the end, along with the rising inflection of a question. The man tried to subtly glance at her, eyes shifting as he raised a finger to his lips and barked something; even with the language barrier, she could understand an order to shut up, or at the very least to be more discreet. The woman snarled her nose before tossing her hair and taking a step back in order to better see the TV.

"Do you think that's…?" Walter looked back up from his magazine to eye the pair.

"Andrews, most likely." At the term, the woman's head whipped back around and she sized them both up before brandishing a very sarcastic smile and dipping her head in a nod. The man pursed his lips at her and shot them a quick look that seemed apologetic, as if he felt the need to atone for the other's attitude. "There you have it," he murmured, eyes back on the glossed pages. She continued to watch them intermittedly, trying to remember what her Vatican informants had told them about the other Special Operations.

Being XIII, Iscariot was only the tail-end of a highly detailed system of Ops Forces that revolved around a smoothly running religion. Andrews, she vaguely remembered, were machine-driven in nature. The tool belts only confirmed that thought. Mechanics, plumbers, motorists, machine workers: although she did remember a side note that they were also in charge of restoration. Perhaps painters and carvers fell under their umbrella as well?

Even so, why would Andrews know of her and her Organization? She was under the impression that only Iscariot dealt with her. Perhaps they were friends with some of the members of Section XIII? Or was she a permanent face on the 'Do Not Trust' list in some central office somewhere? She stared down at her lap and mused over this, missing the secretary opening the whitewashed door at the end of the room and allowing the twosome inside. She also missed the young woman that stepped out as the Andrews passed and was now observing her and her companion with a scrutinizing air.

"Miss Hellsing?" the woman announced after she'd gotten her fill. Integra looked up, startled at the newcomer, and came eye to eye with the most _pastel_ woman she'd ever seen before. She was wearing a French cut suit in a light blue color, the skirt hem falling just above her knees and revealing light brown hose. A puffy white blouse peeked through the gap between the lapels, and on the right hand side she wore a silver pin in the shape of two intertwined feathers surrounding a cross. She had white gloves, white heels, and a blue pillbox hat that matched the suit perfectly, two white feather accents decorating the brim. . Her blonde pincurls hung neatly around her face, brushing her cheeks and reminding Integra of a picture she'd once seen of Sir Iron's wife, when the woman was about fifty years younger.

"Yes, I'm Sir Hellsing." she finally replied in the same voice, rising from her seat. Walter rose as well, putting his magazine on the coffee table where he'd found it. The woman smiled brightly at them, showing off two rows of perfectly squared teeth that gleamed against the pink of her lipstick. She sauntered over, perching gracefully on her heels and offering her gloved hand to them.

"Hello there, luvvie. I'm Miss Angela," she said, and Integra realized that she was a fellow Englishman as well. The astonishment of it threw her off guard and her hand was being shaken before she could even come up with a complaint about being made to wait so long. That, and the odd appearance…. She had been expecting a psychologist—or at least, someone who looked the part. This woman looked more like she was expecting to walk the runway later on that afternoon in some sort of 1950s era model shoot.

"Walter Dornez," the butler introduced himself with a polite bow. Miss Angela inclined her head as well, her smile widening more than one would think humanly possible.

"A pleasure," she simpered before turning back to the heiress. "I'm to be your evaluator," she explained, confirming Integra's suspicions. Something must have shown on her face, for the woman's mascaraed eyelashes fluttered and her pink lips rounded in an 'O'. "Of course you're confused to see me!" she exclaimed, one white hand cupping her cheek. "No one told you, did they?" Her expression morphed from joy to sympathy faster than Integra could blink. "Bishop Maxwell _wanted_ a lower psychologist on the job, but the Pope was insistent that no one but the _best_ would do. After all, we're both banking on the results, aren't we? Iscariot and Hellsing, I mean, naturally." The joy returned. "That's why I'm here!"

"A lesser psychologist?" Walter repeated in puzzlement. Miss Angela nodded, her pincurls flipping about her face.

"A regular psychoanalyst, I mean. Oh, come with me," she motioned, turning to point towards the whitewashed door. "I'll explain as I go." She opened it for them, ushering them into an unadorned hallway painted in light beige with matching tiled floor that would have hid dirt exceedingly well. "Down to the lift," she ordered, pointing their way again. "Anyway, I'm the head of my department, and His Holiness wanted you to be in the best hands while you're in Rome. None but the best would do," she said again, more firmly.

"And what are your credentials?" Integra asked, still eyeing the robin's egg blue of her dress and watching the feathers on her hat bounce in time with her stride. The Chicklet smile never faltered.

"Well, I have a Ph.D. in clinical psychology, but I also hold various degrees in social, cognitive, and quantitive psychology." She laughed. "I know what you're thinking, so I'll just tell you outright: I'm thirty-four, Miss Hellsing. More than enough time to gather degrees. I started when I was eighteen, you see." They stopped in front of the lift, but as she was pressing the button she opened a door to the right and revealed a plain breakroom of sorts. The smell of coffee and pastries drifted into the hallway. "I'll have to ask you to remain here, Mr. Dornez," she said politely to Walter.

"Whyever for?" Walter replied, eyebrows lifting.

"We take our evaluations here very seriously. We can't allow anything, or anyone, other than examiner and examinee past the lift in order to maintain an unbiased environment." She offered him a tighter, more tight-lipped smile. "We don't want the results to be skewed in any way, do we?" Her voice was chipper enough, but now it held a darker undercurrent that seemed almost like a threat. Walter caught onto it and glared at her, dark eyes staring into pale ones. "There's coffee and Danishes for your pleasure, and we have a variety of reading materials. It won't be very long," she assured him.

"It's alright, Walter," Integra spoke up. "I'll be back." The butler looked as if he meant to argue, but she saw him give in with a slump of the shoulders.

"If you insist," he addressed them both, turning and walking into the room. She smiled confidently at him, nodding once before climbing into the lift and letting the metal doors separate them. Miss Angela continued to beam at her as if nothing had happened.

"Now then, Miss Hellsing—"

"It's _Sir_ Hellsing," Integra corrected, the sound echoing in the small space.

"Are you married?" The question caught her off guard and she answered without thinking.

"Of course not."

"Then until you are, I will address you as 'Miss'. Official titles are lost on me, I'm afraid." The lift ground to a halt and the door slid open, revealing a white tiled floor and beige hallway. Instead of doors, the rooms were sectioned off from the hallway by arches, so that Integra could see into them as they passed. It seemed, oddly enough, to be a medical ward. Men and women in dove-grey lab coats and scrubs convened in groups of twos and threes, sharing notes and speaking in low voices. They didn't glance upwards as the pair passed by.

"What is this?" she asked brusquely, wondering if she could make it back to the lift before they could catch her. _I know that she said examinations, but this is not what I had in mind at all._ "I thought I was here for a psychological evaluation."

"You are," Miss Angela retorted as she led her into a room at the end of the hallway. It was the size of a closet, holding only a chair and lab bench. "Take your coat off and roll up your sleeves," she ordered, pressing a button on the wall. It began to flash green, but after thirty seconds the flashing stopped and it remained lit.

"What is this?" she asked again, her tone demanding an answer. Miss Angela was unperturbed by the loud query.

"A little blood test, if you have to know," she said with a shake of her head, as though telling something to an unruly child instead of a woman only a few years her junior. "It's standard procedure for any new patient undergoing tests."

"Why do I need to have my blood drawn for something as simple as an exam?" Integra insisted, crossing her arms instead of obediently stripping down. Miss Angela stayed motionless by the button, her hands clasped behind her back.

"Because biochemistry makes up just as much of our minds as environment, Miss Hellsing. Think about it—all the things we used to discredit as lunacy or hysteria has, in recent times, been revealed as real mental disease. You can have as much counseling as you like, but nothing will help an unbalanced mind until we set the biochemistry straight. That's why we have medicines in conjunction with counseling, to make happy, healthy individuals."

"I can assure you that I am not mentally unbalanced," Integra spat. "Despite agreeing to take this test, I refuse to allow myself to be subjected to any sort of _biochemical_ experimentation." To her surprise, the woman actually rolled her eyes and exhaled a little 'oh' of frustration.

"We aren't planning on experimenting on you, I can assure _you_ ," she countered in a clipped voice. "We merely take your blood to get a good standing on your current state of health. Sometimes we find things in the blood—hormones, a small infection, an increase or deficiency in vitamins—little things that make a difference when grading an evaluation. We have a saying here: It only takes a small thing to make a big change," she quoted. "Like I told your friend, we take our evaluations very seriously here."

"And if I refuse?"

"Well, you can either have come all this way for nothing and mar your character by refusing to do something you said you would, or…" Miss Angela tilted her head to the side, blonde curls falling over her shoulder. "There are men who are perfectly capable of holding you down. Are you frightened of needles, Miss Hellsing? Is that what this is about?"

"Of course not!"

"Then… _please_ take off your _coat_." Her voice had gone eerily sinister. Integra scowled at her another moment, but shrugged off her suit jacket. What choice did she have, anyway? It was as Miss Angela said: if she refused, she'd have gone all this way for nothing. And there was the direct orders from the Queen looming over her head as well; it was her sworn duty as a knight to uphold Her Majesty's will. Miss Angela took the article of clothing and motioned for her to roll up her sleeve.

"Not too tightly," she cautioned, back to her bubbly self now that her orders had been carried through. "Take a seat there; I think I hear the technician coming now." Integra sat down in the tiny, uncomfortable chair and true to her word, a grey-clad technician came through the archway carrying a small box filled with supplies.

"Right arm," the man muttered as he sat down and pulled on a pair of gloves, clearly used to doing this. She held it out and was subjected to the fastest blood-drawing of her life, over before she was even aware that it was happening. He had already wrapped her hand in gauze and was scribbling something on the vials with a pen before nodding once to Miss Angela and leaving the room.

"Okay, you can put your things back on and we'll head on to the testing room!" she stated cheerfully, handing the coat back to Integra as soon as her sleeve was rolled back over the bandage. Back out the door and down the hall they went, back into the lift, and then up to the third floor. The entire ride, neither woman said a word. Miss Angela seemed ready to get down to business, and Integra was wondering what surprise would come next. _Probably a vivisection of some sort,_ she thought grimly. _I do wish that Walter could have come along after all._ Despite being the butler and 'trash man' she found his presence calming, considering that he had practically raised her as a second father. At least she could take heart in the fact that he was in the building, and could theoretically rush to her side if she were in danger.

"Don't speak loudly," Miss Angela warned as the lift dinged and opened to reveal the third floor. It was much darker than the other two beneath it, both in color and lighting. The lights were dimmed, the walls painted slate, the carpeting cobalt. The doors were not white, nor arches, but instead steel and closed off from the world. It looked like the hallway of a psych ward, or perhaps a solitary confinement in a prison. Integra paused, but Miss Angela pushed her out onto the floor with another soft nudge to the shoulder and then stepped past her to lead the way.

She could hear voices as they walked, muffled by the doors. Sometimes there was a solo tone, sometimes groups or even entire crowds hidden somewhere behind the doors. Was it some sort of lecture hall? What lay behind the doors? Integra was pondering the mysteries of the voices she couldn't see faces for when they finally stopped before a door just like the rest. Miss Angela pulled a key from the inside pocket of her suit coat and unlocked it, revealing inky blackness. She stepped confidently into this, leaving Integra in the hallway. Curiosity piqued, Integra followed despite her better judgement, wondering what the room would bring.

* * *

"Tell me about your family life. What were your parents like?"

"My mother died when I was born." Her predetermined method for this evaluation was to answer whatever questions they threw at her with as little detail as possible. After all, it might have been her duty to obey the Queen, but that didn't mean she had to be entirely forthcoming. She could see, during times like these, why Alucard strove so hard to find loopholes in her orders. It even made her sympathize with him, almost. _Almost_. The room was empty, save for a single table and two chairs. Granted, the chair she'd been placed in was comfortable and the room was neither too hot nor too cold, but she still felt on edge.

Perhaps it was her evaluator sitting directly across from her, the pale eyes searching her features and the pen in her hand constantly writing, even when Integra hadn't said anything. And, curse her, her notes were in shorthand; Integra couldn't read them. If Walter had been allowed up here, he could have told her what the psychologist was writing about her. She was writing quite a bit, her loops and scrawls already stretching across half a page with only two questions spoken. Perhaps she was writing about her attitude, her way of sitting, her stress levels and tells? She schooled her face into a neutral expression, trying to be a blank slate that showed no internal struggle or thought.

And your father? What is he like?"

"He's dead." She continued to stare down at the notes, refusing to look the woman in the eyes. _I am Iron. I am Stone. I am Expressionless, Emotionless. There is nothing vulnerable about me, nothing wrong with me._

"Oh? And when did he pass? Recently?"

"No, when I was twelve. About fifteen years ago." Miss Angela nodded, her hand ceaselessly moving along the page.

"It must have been hard, losing your only parent at such a young age."

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps?" Miss Angela repeated with a hint of amusement. "Do you not remember whether or not it was hard?"

"I was sad, if that's what you mean. As for it being _hard_ in any way… I think that word means different things for different people." _No susceptibility. Even the loss of a family member doesn't stop me from my duties. Are you writing that down too, Papist?_ There was a thoughtful hum, and the sound of scribbling.

"Was the death sudden? An accident, a heart attack?"

"He died of disease. He was bedridden for a long time." Another pause.

"What disease?" Integra was silent. "Cancer?" she prompted.

"…Tuberculosis." Miss Angela stayed quiet long enough that she looked up from the paper to meet the older woman's eyes. They stared at each other for a long time before Miss Angela lifted the pen to her lips, tapping softly. Pink plumped against the golden edge of the pen. They looked drier, more chapped. Maybe it was time for new coat; Integra wasn't good with cosmetics, so she didn't know.

"Tuberculosis," she repeated in a slow tone, her gaze searching Integra's face. She knew what the psychologist was looking for; it was the same look everyone gave her when they first heard of her father's death and the autopsy results. The look that asked and surmised and knew, all at the same time. It was always just easier to get it out in the open.

"He had AIDS." No matter how many times she told people, it always sounded as though she was blurting it out instead of just calmly speaking. Why was there such a stigma? Her father had told her himself, in words that she could understand at a younger age, what had happened to get the disease. He hadn't seemed ashamed, only pragmatic. The older she became, the more she learned, and the more she realized exactly what had happened: the consequences of sleeping with multiple people with no hint of protection and no idea what might be in store. Of living in the moment. It had taken her a long time to come to terms with the fact that before she'd known him, her father had been anything but settled.

"Ah." She waited for the inevitable. "And do you—"

"No." Years of tests, hidden in the guise of routine physicals, had saved her father _that_ grief. Neither he nor her mother had passed anything to her.

"Your mother?"

"I don't know. My father never said." She assumed so, but assuming was never a good practice. And the woman didn't need to know that; she was already delving into thoughts and memories that Integra really didn't like being dredged from the bottom of her mind. _Damn evaluations… it's for the Queen. It's your duty. Just suck it up and take it like a woman._

"I see." Scribble, scribble, scribble. "I suppose that you must have been very close to him, your father. After all, he was the only parent you had."

"I loved him, if that's what you're asking." Miss Angela tilted her head, peering past Integra's bangs.

"Of course you would love him. He's your father," she replied patiently. "What made _you_ use the term?"

"What?" Scribble, scribble, smile. Miss Angela was becoming a one-horse pony very quickly. Something about that smile… how could it both rile her and yet make her want to talk? Probably because if she talked more, they'd be done faster and the smile would go away.

"I mean that it should be obvious that you loved your father. I'm sure you spent a great deal of time with him, and as any good father would he encouraged you and took pride in your accomplishments. I'm sure he was affectionate—"

"No." The word was out of her mouth before she could stop herself. She'd said it more forcefully than she'd meant to, the sound severe. Miss Angela tilted her head in silent query. "He wasn't an affectionate man." A smile, two blinks, no scribble.

"And you aren't affectionate either." Who was she, to append the end of her sentences like that? When Integra didn't answer, the scribbling resumed full-force. She felt like a lab rat, caught beneath a scientist's gaze; she hated it. Half of her wanted to stand up and leave right now, take the lift back downstairs and drag Walter back to the airport. The other half was torn between finishing because it _was_ her duty, and finishing because she didn't want to hear it from the other Knights if she didn't, duty be damned to hell. Miss Angela turned to a fresh page, almost without ceasing the movement of her writing hand.

"Again," she said suddenly, not wanting to be called out and made to have some sort of untrue, antisocial complex, "I think that word means different things for different people." It at least stopped the flow of ink on paper, as the pen went up to tap the pink lips once more.

"Certainly, Miss Hellsing, you have people that you love." The question-disguised-as-a-statement caught _her_ off-guard. She thought about this. _Were_ there people in her life that she loved? Who would even qualify? Walter, perhaps, and the Cook, both of whom raised her alongside her father. Their faces were as familiar to her as any, and they featured in all of her earliest memories. And the Penwoods, her godparents, who were absent before her father's death at his behest and stepped in to be the voices of reason when he was gone. Sir Penwood was like a well-meaning uncle, better than her own uncle ever had been, giving her money towards new equipment and studies and calling to wish her happy birthday. His wife, the woman who'd taught her about fashion (not that she cared), society (not that she left the house much), and doted on her in a way that, quite frankly, made her uncomfortable.

But did she _love_ them? She didn't feel half of what she'd felt for her father for them. Granted, she cared about them and if they were suddenly gone, she would be very despondent. But love? What was love? The instinctive feelings that she'd had towards her father had been all she ever knew of it. And his love, in return, was quiet pride. She couldn't even recall him ever _telling_ her that he loved her. She'd always just known, the same way she'd known that breathing was good and pain was bad.

Walter and Cook, she knew, loved her in their own ways. Cook stuffed food into her and worried about her health when she didn't eat. Walter watched over her and suffered silently through her stressful times. Sir Penwood was fonder of her than the other Knights to the point that his preference was obviously skewed, and his wife often referred to her as the daughter she'd never had. But was _that_ the sort of love that Miss Angela was talking about? She wasn't sure.

"I—I don't—"

"You don't know?" Miss Angela finished, and there was a hint of doubt in her words. "There's not even one person that you're sure you love?"

"I'm fond of many people," she refuted, trying to salvage both the question and her own hesitance. Miss Angela waited for her to continue, and then an odd, indefinable emotion flickered across her face as she slowly wrote something, no longer scribbling. She seemed to be lost in thought, and Integra felt her cheeks begin to burn. Miss Angela paused, looked at her other hand, considered, wrote something more, considered again, and tapped her nail against the table.

"Did you ever find your childhood lacking, compared to others?"

"No, never."

She didn't really want to admit that there had never been anyone else to compare it to.


	2. Ch 2: Anderson

There were only so many times one could sit through the same group therapy without being bored beyond belief. And Father Alexander Anderson, by no real fault of his own, had already sat through 'Advanced Anger Management' exactly _twenty-seven_ times since being inducted into the Vatican Special Operations. He knew that he could quote the whole damn class by now if asked to. He'd passed the final exam plenty of times, more than enough to guarantee a lifetime exemption from learning about the proper way to channel raw emotion into constructive habits and how to talk to peers without instigating a fight.

Still, the class was mandatory for all Iscariots (due to a number of complaints after the last blind audit on the organization's financial records), and so he was back for class number twenty-eight. He was currently sitting in a team of four at a little rectangular table, the same group who had sat together for the past dozen or so of these pointless group therapy classes. The other three were the only people he had in his life that he really considered to be equals to him. He didn't have friends in the traditional connotation of the word, he had colleagues. However, there were colleagues whose companionship was more pleasant than others, and they seemed to gravitate towards each other anyway whenever being paired off. Perhaps it was because they were all roughly the same age—of course _he_ was older than he looked, but appearance-wise they were all around six and thirty.

To his left sat Oliver, a plain, boring man with a flat nose and mousy hair who was engaged to a plain, boring Luke with blonde hair and an overbite. His eyes were too wideset and he had a mole on the side of his neck, half hidden by his hair, but he was jovial and he had good morals. Directly across from Oliver was Darren, a man who might have been handsome in his youth. He was married to a high-ranking Matthew team manager and had three daughters of varying ages. For as long as Anderson had known him, he had a full black beard that was slowly losing a war to grey creeping in from the sides, and there was a cowlick on the back of his head that made his hair look as though it were splitting two different directions. He was quiet and gruff but very intelligent and enjoyed the art of blacksmithing.

To Darren's left, across from Anderson, sat the only female of their group. A very pretty-ish sort of woman, Siobhan was an Irish native who had joined Iscariot only a decade or so ago. She had vibrant eyes a few shades lighter than his own and frizzy red curls, the majority of which stayed beneath her veil though a few wisps were always managing to escape and float around her temples. Her voice was airy and soft, and although she was a very nice person when one met her eyes it felt as though she were staring straight through to one's deepest innermost thoughts. Sometimes the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up when she drifted too close, but for all it was worth he couldn't find anything at all inhuman about her. Perhaps it was just those all-knowing eyes that set him on edge.

The four were supposed to be doing class exercises and writing down their answers, but they had already taken the class enough that they didn't need to look in the pamphlets to know what to write down. Their pages were filled within the first five minutes, his chicken scrawl barely legible, Darren's large letters running off the answer lines, Oliver's cramped words squishing into run-on sentences, and Siobhan's neat print sitting in slanted lines. So, while the rest of the class labored for the remaining twenty minutes, they were free to relax and talk amongst themselves.

"It's not right," Oliver was complaining to the group, arms crossed defensively over his chest. "We're already balls deep in work as it is." He was picking up an argument that had been debated over and over again between them all for at least a week. The Pope had ordered Section XIII to branch out across the Vatican controlled countries in order to keep tabs on the annual werewolf migration. It was mating season, and packs larger than twenty posed a threat to small villages in third-world countrysides. An angered pack already high on hormones could easily wipe out a village of five thousand in a single night if they felt threatened enough. The problem was that they were short-staffed, due to the normal hazards of their profession. Assassins never lived long enough to retire, if they even made it to middle age.

"'Tis our job," Siobhan replied, hands laced on top of her exercise paper. "It don' matter how thin we're stretched; if His Holiness wants it, then—"

"Then he should provide us with the resources!"

"Keep your voice down," Darren grumbled as the class mentor looked over curiously. "If you're fighting in Anger Management, you'll be sent to Remedial for sure."

"Where might said resources come from?"

"Phillips." Oliver slumped lower in his seat. "Thaddeus missionaries. Extras from James, and maybe even Andrew."

"They're not trained well enough," Siobhan protested in her quiet, sublime way.

"Aye," he chimed in, finally feeling enough ground under his feet to add to the debate. "The closest to a real help would be the Phillips, and even they're no' enough to hold a real fight against any werewolf."

"And those Thaddaeus fellas are nothing more than rale Bulgarians," Siobhan added with a nod.

"According to them, we're nothing but psychopathic bottom-feeders," Darren countered, scratching his beard.

"They're putting on airs."

"Never said they weren't, did I?" He sniffed. "Anyone who willingly goes out to deserts and tundras is a bit dodgy to begin with, in my opinion."

"Watch yer tongue," Anderson warned him. "They do God's work." Darren blinked at him over his dark lenses.

"So do we," he replied simply. They lapsed back into silence, punctuated by the sound of Oliver's pencil tapping the side of the table rhythmically.

"Dinnae say nothing to no one else," he spoke suddenly, knowing that he could rely on the other three's secrecy in the matter, "but Maxwell's talking o' splitting teams, in order to meet the coverage requirements." This was met with sounds of shock and disapproval, as he had expected.

"Splitting teams!" Darren exclaimed with a shake of his head. "And why?"

"To cut overall loss," Anderson answered. "Maxwell thinks tha' pairing veterans with the younger, less experienced ones will keep them from dying as quick, should the werewolves attack."

"It'll kill off the veterans too," Siobhan sighed. "Everyone knows that we're only as good as our closest partners." Oliver, her usual pairing, smiled sheepishly at her. "And why split now? This is the way it's always been, since Iscariot's conception." Anderson knew that; he'd been around when it was first conceived. Before the close of World War II, assassins had been a specialized subset of Section VII war tactics.

"I advised him against it," he admitted. "But I dinnae if he'll actually listen to me."

"Ten minutes left, class." There was a pensive moment when the four of them were all thinking, and then Oliver resumed the conversation.

"It won't really matter much to you, will it?" he pointed out. "You don't really have a partner." There was a stretch of uncomfortable silence, before he quickly added, "What I meant was that things won't change as much for you as it will for us…." He trailed off, running a hand through his hair as Siobhan glared at him.

While it was being rude to make such an ostracizing statement in general, to point out that someone was partner-less meant one of two things: either their partner had recently died, which was already shaky ground, or that they were somehow lacking the social skills to fit into a group. And it wasn't just for Iscariots, either: every special organization had pairs of workers, trios of lab scientists, small groups of security guards and flocks of auditors, among other things. It was like a child's counting book: **2** Andrews. **3** Peters. **4** Marks. The only ones who missed out were high-ranking officials, or people who just didn't fit in anywhere.

Anderson knew that he was the exception, since he took on more dangerous, supernatural cases that normal humans like his coworkers would be hard-pressed to handle, but it didn't stop the slight pang of irritation and loneliness that the words caused. Perhaps that was why he didn't have more friends; he never had the chance to be part of a group that sat, trained, travelled, worked,and even _ate_ together.

Still—even if he was missing the emotional connections that pairs or teams had, he could still sympathize with their concern at being split. It was like breaking apart a family because the parents had qualities that were needed, or the children were in need of higher teaching at some sort of faraway boarding school. He had went through the same thing in his youth, growing up with a father who traveled miles and miles away to work in factories, sending home money when he could and returning only when there was no more work to be had.

Before he could speak and absolve Oliver of the guilty expression he'd donned—thinking, no doubt, that he'd managed to hurt his coworker's feelings—there was a polite rap at the door followed by the sounds of fifty-six heads turning in their chairs.

"Come in," the mentor called, irritated at being interrupted during therapy. She shrugged her grey uniformed sleeve to the side and looked at her watch, shaking her head. Any scolding she was going to give died on her tongue when the door opened and the room caught a glimpse of blonde curls and pastels. "M-Miss Angela!" the Peter squeaked, standing at attention with a forced smile, spots of pink forming on her plump cheekbones. The Iscariots pulled back as one, peering furtively from the corners of their eyes instead of head-on as they had been. Anderson knew that most of them had no idea _who_ this newcomer was, but the light blue of her clothing, as well as the stylized hat, was the sign of a high-ranking Peter. Even the lowest on the totem pole could recognize authority.

" _Buon Pomeriggio_ , Miss Bianchi," Miss Angela greeted in a professional tone, before eyeing them all with a highly scrutinizing air. " _Ciao a tutti_!" she added in a different, more chipper voice. There were mumbled greetings of different languages and formalities across the room, but she beamed as if a proper classroom of bright individuals had answered in a single resounding voice. "I hope I'm not interrupting your class," she apologized, stepping into the room with a soft clack of heels on tile.

"Not at all!" the mentor cried, as though she hadn't been angry all of two seconds earlier. "Please come in. We were just about to go over the answers to our Anger Management exercises."

"Oh, I won't keep you, then." Miss Angela looked around again, this time drawing out the moment for some reason all her own. _Effect, probably_ , Anderson thought. _Knowing her_. He had had far too many close experiences with the middle-aged woman, and he knew her style. She was the type of person to keep a friendly face, only as long as her will was law. The minute one tried to deviate from her suggestion of normalcy, it was her pride and pleasure to inject as much mental and physical discomfort as possible using nearly sadistic psychological methods. It was, of course, only one of the reasons she was able to shatter the glass ceiling and climb to such prestigious heights inside the Vatican Special Forces. Not many would dare go against her, and she liked it that way.

"Mr. Anderson." His head jerked up and he met her eyes, shocked at being singled out. His first thought was that she had somehow, by means of her own, known what he was thinking and was about to call him out on it. But he hadn't said anything out loud, and he hadn't even been staring at her. There was no way she could know, and besides—she knew that he didn't like her very much. He'd told her so on many occasions, and he sensed that she relished his opinion of her with delight. "Mr. Anderson, I need to have a private word."

A private word? Was he late on something? It wouldn't have been the first time. He was notorious amongst the Iscariots for being forgetful, his mind focused on more important things like the orphanage budget and how to stop the majority of vampires that were spread like a plague through all of Catholic Europe. His mind raced, trying to remember if he'd seen an email, or a memo that he'd simply forgotten to send back an answer to. His secretary, a nice 4'9" Luke who was friends with Oliver's fiancé, usually stayed on top of those things and reminded him promptly about deadlines and courtesy replies. Still, she was human, and humans made mistakes.

He stood, chair squealing as the legs caught the grooves in the tile, and felt eyes on his back from every corner. No one was breathing, it seemed, the room thrown into preternatural silence that stemmed from the brilliant smile on Miss Angela's face. His groupmates were staring down at the table, suddenly interested in their papers. Whatever she had in store for him, it would be child's play compared to squashing whatever rumors would surface from this moment. It would be halfway through the Special Organizations by tonight, reaching full zenith tomorrow as everyone knew that he'd been specially called out for a _private chat_ with a head official.

"Miss Bianchi, please give Mr. Anderson full credit for today. It's, unfortunately, a matter that cannot be delayed." The mentor was stone, only able to give the smallest of nods in answer. " _Thank you_ ," she simpered, lips curling almost comically. "This way, if you please," she said to Anderson, as though he couldn't figure out how to exit the room on his own. He brushed past her coldly, already annoyed. What could such a private chat be about, that it couldn't wait until after his—admittedly asinine—mandatory class? It was either something he'd forgotten that she felt needed to be addressed and properly scolded for, or… he didn't like to think about the 'or'. It only led to trouble and embarrassment.

As Miss Angela said some sort of farewell pleasantries to the mentor, he felt a death knell ring _somewhere_ for him, resonating in his bones. There was a familiar, deep-set churning in his stomach; he felt the same when he was called before his superiors in Iscariot to explain failed missions. It was nerves and the instinctive precursor to fights, adrenaline. There _would_ be a fight, he was nearly certain. There always was, when the 'or'was involved alongside her.

"Ahem." A polite, nearly sarcastic clearing of the throat. He looked down at her and she crooked a finger in a silent order for him to follow, heading for her office at the end of the long hallway. Her perfectly manicured eyebrows were high above her lashes, already expecting some sort of remark or trouble from him. He followed quietly, more for the sake of gathering his own wits for any counterarguments he might have to endure.

Neither of them spoke a word until they were in her office with the door shut. Pink polish glinting in the dim light of the wall sconces, she pointed him in the direction of a leather chair he knew all too well. He sat, inhaling the heady fragrance of lavender hand soap and Red Rose Spritz as he glanced around without being _too_ obvious about it.

Her office was another reason he disliked her; it was larger than his own office, but it was so _neat_! The books were color coded on the shelves, large volumes pressed together without a single one sitting slanted. Her desk was separated into organized piles that didn't spill over onto her computer tower or the floor. Her outgoing box was neatly stacked, the ingoing box nearly empty no matter what time of day it was. It was almost as if she were always caught up on work, though that had to be impossible. She was a prominent official in Section IX! Still, just the sight alone of that pristine desk sent shivers down his spine.

She tottered over to her chair on the opposite side of the desk, sitting down with a movement that was efficient, if not graceful. For what seemed an eternity, though it could only have been a minute or two, their eyes locked once more. Her smile was at full force, stretching the limits of her cheeks with even, blunt squares on full display. Her lashes fluttered, fingers laced and cheeks rosy as she sat there, waiting on something. Finally he took the bait.

"Any particular reason I'm here?" Neither polite nor impolite, but rather blunt and to the point. He really didn't feel like bothering with her today—not that he did any day, for that matter. She didn't answer right away, instead looking him over. He _hated_ it; while Siobhan could see right into him, her eyes held the notion that she already knew everything about him. Those eyes instead catalogued his appearance in one, two, three full body sweeps and made some judgement that he wasn't privy to.

"What do you think?" Another habit of hers, answering his question with one of her own and expecting him to blurt out a reply. He set his teeth, looking up at the boring tiles of the ceiling and taking a few even breaths in an effort to keep her from seeing that she was already getting him agitated.

"The most obvious option is tha' I've forgotten something, and yer going to give me another one o' those damn planners." He shifted uncomfortably in the seat, wishing that he could stretch his legs out. His knees hurt when he had to sit in a 'proper' position, since his legs were long enough that most chairs were too small. "Or, less likely, ye've found a candidate for Regeneration and ye want my opinion before ye submit a report." The smile somehow grew _bigger_ , fingers lacing a little tighter.

"Is that the most obvious option to you?" she asked, fingers twitching slightly. He noticed them, wondering if she were itching to pick up her pen and write notes on him. Her eyes bored into him as she waited for a response. He knew what she wanted him to say, but he'd be damned before he obliged her.

"Aye."

"Still skirting around unsavory topics of conversation," she sighed, shaking her head. Her curls bounced. He had the urge to yank one out by the roots. "Reliant on avoidance behaviors and engaging in maladaptive coping on a regular basis." It was as if she were speaking to some invisible third party, or making notes on a tape recorder. Perhaps she was saying them aloud so that she could remember them later. Or, more plausibly, she was saying them aloud to reinforce her point and anger him. It was working, if that was the case.

"I didnae expect to be called in for a psychology session, especially by an _Angel_." He enunciated the proper term, driving his own point home. She was only a case worker, not a Peter psychologist. He was used to this from—

"Oh, Father Renaldo has told me all about it," she crooned, twisting one ringlet around her index finger as she somehow guessed who he was thinking about. "Your prior history is rife with escape behavior, isn't it? Exchanging physical escape tactics for emotional ones will simply _not do_ , Mr. Anderson." She leaned forward, eyeing him. "What exactly are you anxious about?"

" _Nothing._ " He avoided her gaze, but it was nearly impossible to look away from the desk. Finally he peered up to see her watching him the same way tigers watched prey. Or, at least, that's what it felt like. "What did ye call me in here for?!" he exclaimed gruffly, wanting nothing more than to leave the room.

"We found a match. Strand R Recessive."

"What?!" How could it be that his heart both skipped a beat and froze at the same time? It was what his superiors were waiting for—what he was waiting for, in his own way; yet, at the same time, he dreaded the implications. His whole life would change; everything he knew would turn on its head.

"It's true." Miss Angela opened a drawer, removing a small spiral notebook. She opened it to a blank page, picking up a ballpoint pen from a holder in the shape of a dove. Placing it on the paper, she turned and sorted through a stack of manila folders on her desk beside the sleeping computer, glancing at each of the contents before pulling one out. Scooting back from the desk, she placed the folder in her lap and barely looked at it before beginning a furious shorthand scribbling, speaking absently as she wrote.

"This morning we had a new patient in for psychoanalysis and ran her blood—the normal procedures; you know. To our surprise, it was a perfect match. It really…" she trailed off, tapping her lips with the pen. "Changed our outlook on things," she finished in a slow, deliberate voice, making two or three more notes before observing him again. "She passed the psychoanalysis too, if that matters." He swallowed, feeling a thick lump in his throat that was part nerves, part unwilling excitement.

"And we are… compatible?" he managed to ask, staring down at her page of unintelligible squiggles and scrawls. He hoped that for some reason she would say no, that they weren't at all compatible and that the entire thing could be passed off to other, more scientific means. After all, did _everything_ have to be done by the book? Even as he thought this, he knew that it was a false hope. The Church wouldn't allow science to take over something so inherently natural, not until it was time for the Regeneration process. Strand R Recessive… something the scientists had been searching for, for the better part of three decades.

"Would I bother to tell you if you weren't?" Miss Angela cackled, shoulders shaking with her laughter. "Honestly, Mr. Anderson, what a bloody stupid question!" She lowered her voice to a chuckle, brushing hair from her face. "If certain matters are approved, I think there's a good chance you might just get on very well together."

"Certain… matters?" As head of the department, she held the power to approve all matches. He knew from experience, not with himself but with coworkers who appealed to her for an unscheduled compatibility test with something they'd met. Not all matches had to be _arranged_ , after all. Only accepted and put into place.

"Yes. I've already submitted my findings, and the lab work, to my superiors." Her smile drifted into something smaller, more secretive. He tried to remember who might be her superior, but no one came to mind. He knew, vaguely, that above the color-coded prominent heads of departments sat bishops, cardinals, and other various figures that would have the ultimate say in certain factors of how their organizations were run. Maxwell was one of the rare few who preferred to handle things himself, rather than split duties down to what would have been black-coated authorities. It unnerved him to think that some cardinal might be, at this moment, pouring over the details of his life history. "And they, in turn," she added after letting her previous sentence sink in, "have contacted _your_ superiors by now." She glanced at her watch. "Oh yes, surely they've all met up by now."

"Maxwell?" he clarified, feeling foolish. If she thought it a stupid question, she didn't comment on it.

"Oh yes," she repeated. "He was not at all pleased to find out." She laughed again, callously. "I think he's probably arguing his case as we speak. I wouldn't be surprised to find him blue-faced from lack of air." She bit the edge of her pen, smiling around it. "I wonder how much difference it will make. How fascinating Consistories are. I'd love to see it myself—I could have, but I just thought you'd like to know that your life was the subject of such debate," she concluded cheerfully.

"A _Consistory?_ " Did she really mean that allthe cardinals _and_ His Holiness were there?!

"Yes. A rather informal one, since they don't plan on electing anyone," she explained, waving her hand. "But this is such a special case that they felt the need to discuss it in full. Bishop Maxwell was especially invited as your superior to state your case for you." She checked her watch again. "They were supposed to start the meeting about half an hour ago."

"W-why?" He put his hands on his knees, leaning forward. What on earth did all this mean? Was it because of Regeneration? Was there some sort of special ceremonies and trials that had to be performed before he could be matched? He thought back to the days of his predecessor, when he was a new Regenerator and the old man had been teaching him the ropes. He had never said anything about it, but then again, he hadn't been matched either. After the last near-failure, new rules had been implemented…. Was this one of them?

"I'm almost certain it has to do with who she is," Miss Angela said, putting her pen back into the divot between the dove's wings. "Quite a to-do."

"What? Is she not an Iscariot?" He could never have imagined himself being matched with anyone outside his own organization, though it happened every day. Oliver was proof enough of that, being matched with a _Luke,_ for God's sake. Everyone knew that Lukes were the bottom of the chain, the low-pay secretaries and billers. People who didn't have enough talent to do _real_ work. Miss Angela flashed her secretive smile again.

"Not hardly," she admitted.

"Eh… Phillip?" A shake of her head, curls bouncing. " _Mark_?" No. "Thomas."

"No one from an agency." He was taken aback, but her smile gave away nothing.

"An official, then," he prompted, feeling more puzzled than ever. He really didn't want to deal with a match who had a seat of authority. "A missionary lead? Or a scientist? A…." his mind went blank, unable to think up any other possibility.

"No, no, and no." She didn't seem too keen to answer. "Besides, why would Bishop Maxwell have any qualms against _them_?" she added in a manner she must have thought was helpful. Personally, he thought Maxwell wouldn't be happy with anyone who'd take time away from his work at Iscariot, but he didn't feel much like voicing that opinion to her.

"Who, then?" In answer, she folded the manila folder and picked it up from her lap, handing it over the desk to him. He opened it, peering down at the neatly typed pages within without really reading them. After a moment, his eyes focused and he skimmed it curiously at first, but then—

He froze. There was no other word for it. He could feel his blood slow to a stop in his veins, his heart struck between beats, his mind blanking and limbs stiffening. Then, several emotions at once ran through his mind, up and down his spine, through his body causing gooseflesh on his arms and a redoubled churning in his guts. Revulsion, Fury, Disbelief, Confusion, Inquisitiveness, Horror, Loathing, and Skepticism, all in a row, had their time in the spotlight at the forefront of his mind.

"A joke," he croaked, finding his voice again. "Yer jokin'." Surely this was her idea of a prank, just to see what he'd say. Would the real sheet be behind this one? He quickly flipped through the papers, but there were no other names in the folder, no other person. It was all one continuous file.

"I'm entirely serious." He couldn't help it; those three words set such his blood boiling. While before the emotions had flown through without time to really think about it, now Rage had taken first chair. He leapt to his feet, slamming his fist on the desk, tossing the folder back at her as though it was hot to the touch.

" _Compatible_!?" he roared. She held a finger to her lips, but he didn't care how loud he was. He'd set the entire compound on high alert if that would make her listen. "How the hell do ye find me compatiblewith that—with that— _whore of Babylon_?!"

"What a fuss!" She lamented, fingers pressed to her temples. "What an absolutely pointless fuss. For the Lord's sake, please take your seat again, Mr. Anderson," she ordered when he ignored her subtle chiding. "We are not in primary school; we're all adults here and while in _my_ office, you're expected to act your age." He obeyed, barely putting his weight on the edge of the seat. He couldn't relax the way he had a moment before. Her, her! And a Papal Consistory!? _Maxwell, you better pull through for me,_ he thought, knowing all too well that the decision rested with an authority much higher than that of bishop. Surely they'd all see reason. Surely….

"There's no way in hell," he said slowly, trying to control his breathing and calm down. He knew from past experience that she wouldn't hesitate to throw him in Remedial. He did _not_ want a three day lecture about Anger Management; the three hour version was bad enough. "No way in hell that the cardinals would agree to that."

"Perhaps not," she agreed with a little jerky nod of her head. Her fingers were laced again. "But my superiors have…" she paused, wrinkling her nose. Her forehead creased and she looked surprisingly cute, like an elementary school child working out a difficult math problem. "I don't know if I should tell you this, but my superiors are for the match."

"What?! _Why_?!" He couldn't believe it. She was—she was the _last_ thing someone like him needed! What did they expect her to do, drop everything and willingly fling herself under Catholic control? He might not have known her that well, but he knew that she would rather die than submit.

"For one, you can't afford to wait another thirty years." His heart gave an odd skipping beat and he looked up to see her watching him closely. "The scientists have guaranteed you what—fifty years?"

"Sixty, if I'm lucky and take good care o' myself," he corrected. The thought of his end, looming just behind the horizon, sobered him a little. Sixty years was nothing, just a single raindrop in a storm. It would be here and gone before he had time to notice.

"Exactly. And should it take another three decades, what will you do? The Regeneration can't begin until eighteen at the earliest. And," she continued, shuffling her papers, "Father Renaldo tells me of the pains the previous Regenerator had to take with you. Pains that were years in solving. You need to have buffer time; that is, extra time for unseen circumstances."

"I know that," he answered crossly. He wasn't a complete idiot.

"Well," she hummed. "That's one of the few things they're taking into consideration as we speak." She tilted her head. "Aren't you—wouldn't you be the least bit willing?" she asked hopefully.

"No." Feeling it was too blunt, he added, "And she won't be, either."

"She's in quite the same situation you are, though for different reasons," Miss Angela sighed. The sound was somehow both pitying and cheerful. "Women only have so long, you know, to make children. And she's already nearing twenty-five."

"I don't—" He really, _really_ didn't want to think about her as a mother. Or as anything, for that matter. It was much better to just ignore her, and her damned organization, until they started stepping where they shouldn't. After all, there _were_ treaties in place, even if he hated it, and consequences for overstepping international bounds. "They can't force either one of us," he stated. One eyebrow rose, pink lips curving.

"If His Holiness says you must, then you _must_."

"I'd like to hear him say that." There was a long pause, and her expression softened until she looked almost friendly, and a little tired.

"I'll ignore that statement, since you're in a state." He blinked, realizing what she meant. She _was_ an eminent official, after all. If he had dared say the same to anyone else, he would have been immediately reported to higher authority and his loyalty called into doubt. He could have lost his position with such a careless slip of the tongue, spoken in anger.

"Do you think… what do you think the outcome will be? Based on your own experiences." She tapped some papers together and stapled them, thinking hard. He could see the gears turning in her mind.

"His Holiness will ultimately do what is best for everyone." She nodded firmly. "We must trust in His judgment. After all, he does the will of God, does he not?"

"Amen." For the first time since his distant youth, he didn't feel any sort of conviction behind the term.


	3. Ch 3: Alucard

The crisp October morning was one of perfect weather for being outside. The cerulean face of the sky was unmarred by cloud or haze, the sun warming the atmosphere beneath her to a balmy temperature that was cut only by the soft, cool breeze that flowed down into the valleys from the snow-capped mountains that ranged the horizon. The tall grasses of the plains swayed to and fro in the breeze, golden waves of hay and steppe flora alternating from farmlands to the wild, untamed countryside that grew near the forests. Birds called to one another, flying overhead and roosting in the forest trees, feathers rustling as below the occasional brown bear lumbered by in search of food before the hibernation period.

Wandering aimlessly beneath the rich red and orange foliage of the trees dotting the landscape, the child was wrapped partly in his own mind, partly in the beauty of the day. The sun climbed higher over the mountains, and so did he climb the hilly plains on his walk. Stopping at the crest of one hill, he rested his tiny palm against a tree, feeling the tough bark and taking a deep breath of the fresh air. The breeze stirred his untamed locks, tickling his cheeks and his lips parted in a smile. This, his homeland, the land he was supposed to be proud of. It was beautiful, living… nice. It was very, very nice.

With all the carelessness of his four years, he paid no attention to time as he squatted to the ground and watched beetles and ants scurry about at the base of the tree. He craned his head and listened to the birds above him, hopping from branch to branch. In a fit of spontaneity he tried to climb the tree himself, but couldn't find a sturdy branch to start from. When his one real hope cracked off in his hand, he swung the switch around and beat the steppe grass for a while, enjoying the sharp _**swish**_ of the pretend blade as it whistled through the air.

One well aimed jab with his switch prodded a frog into motion, causing it to leap out from the grasses and sit, stunned, in the shade of the tree. Stick dropped, the lad turned his attention to the frog and crept towards it slowly. The frog eyed him, throat undulating silently, as he knelt over it and watched eagerly. Then, it gave a small jump. The boy crept two steps forward, until he was over it again.

" _ **Grribbit**_ **.** " Startled, the boy jumped back as the frog released what sounded to him like a war cry, hopping quickly away down the other side of the hill. Frowning, brows drawn, the boy picked up his robes in his fists and prepared to follow. Starting down the hill towards the forest in pursuit of the amphibian, he heard a noise that made him pause. Tilting his head, he turned just enough to catch it again, borne on the breeze, both plaintive and whiny. It was just one word—his name.

He hesitated, still watching the frog with a careful eye. The voice called his name again and he scowled. He _could_ ignore it; after all, it was only Radu. His elder brother hadn't even so much as looked at him when he was trying to get his attention earlier. _It only serves you right that you can't find me now_ , he thought to himself with a mischievous smile. It wasn't as though he hadn't tried to entice him on a walk as well. Even if he was very whiny, he still enjoyed his brother's company. He knew so many things about the world. He could have probably told him something interesting about the frog, and conspired with him to catch it.

But when absorbed in his manuscripts, it was pointless to even speak to him. He'd given it a good effort, but then wandered off on his own without saying much else. He had thought, however, that he could have gone on longer without being missed. After all, they'd decided to stay out of the castle perimeter until right before afternoon lessons, perhaps even forgoing a bite of lunch. Radu, despite fully engrossing himself in whatever he was studying, still kept an eye on the sun and always had them back in time so that they weren't missed by anyone. Looking up at the orb shining through the tree branches, he gaged that they had another hour or so before it reached noontide.

He turned away, preparing to chase his quarry into the forest if need be, but a second voice joined the first. Richer and powerful, breaking on the cusp of manhood, it carried further and echoed across the fields. Frog forgotten, he turned on his heel and hesitated just one moment more to be certain of what he'd heard. Again the second voice rang out. There was no mistaking it now. Kicking up his heels, he raced down the hill the same way he'd come up and crashed into the golden fields of hay, picking his way back towards where he'd left his brother as quickly as possible.

He tried to keep his head above the grass as he ran, taking time every few moments to jump straight in the air like a grasshopper and see where he was. He was small, even if he was to turn five years in the coming month. More than once he tripped in his haste, tumbling to the ground and crushing the golden hues beneath his body before picking himself up and redoubling his speed.

Panting, his heart hammered in his breast as he ran towards the tree line. Radu he could ignore easily enough, perhaps even beat in a tussle should the older boy try to punish him for wandering off, but _Mircea_ he dared not disobey. Mircea was twelve where Radu was only eight, and the largest person that he knew. Mircea was even larger than the adult servants, for he could order them around with ease where they might dare stand up for themselves in his or his other brother's presence.

Flinging himself out of the grass and onto a cart path, he avoided the muddy ruts and leaped over standing puddles of water as he shoved aside brush and tree branches. His eyes searched out the telltale intertwined branches of the trees he'd left Radu in, and found it after only a few minutes of searching. There, at the tree's base, stood his eldest brother.

"Where have you been?" he asked amiably, picking a piece of grass from his hair. "We've been calling you these ten minutes hence."

"Walking." He never said more than a few words at a time, the reason why tumbling headfirst from the tree and barely avoiding breaking his neck.

"You shouldn't have gone off on your own," Radu complained, adjusting the manuscript under his arm before glowering down at him. He was only a few inches taller, but liked to think that he was nearly as important as Mircea.

"You both shouldn't have been out past the gates," Mircea pointed out before he could get a word in his defense. "What if the Hungarians had come? You'd have lost your heads," he said in a far too jovial manner. Despite his words, which were only regurgitated from the servants and their tutors, he was happy to be outside in nature as well. He was often with them when they snuck past the guards, unless otherwise engaged in learning or training.

"Well," Radu huffed with a shrug. He took a deep breath, preparing to venture into an actual sentence or two and tell his brothers about the frog, when Mircea spoke again.

"I've come to collect you, so you'll have to come back either way. They couldn't find you in your chambers, so I knew you must be out here. I have them looking in the cellars for you," he laughed. "So come along."

"Why do they need us?" Radu grumbled, looking back up at the inviting branches of his tree. He knew that if his brother could live in a tree like some sort of bird, he would. He felt a tickle at his neck and Radu pulled a beetle from his hair, nose wrinkling as he flung it into the underbrush. "Where _were_ you?" he asked in an undertone.

"Out there." He pointed in the direction of the forest, but neither of them was paying attention anymore.

"He wants you," Mircea said cryptically. Radu paled, clutching the manuscript.

"What for? We've done nothing to earn any sort of—"

"How should I know? He just does. He ordered me to come find you, and I have. Now let's hurry up, so I can make some excuse about finding you in the gardens or something. If we take too long, the servants will know you weren't anywhere inside the walls." Without further ado, his eldest brother's large hands were brushing the hay residue from his body, and the leaves and bark from Radu's. He gasped as he was picked up like an empty sack, thrown over Mircea's shoulder, the bone digging into his stomach. Then they were running, running, through the trees, out into the sun and across the fields. He was bouncing on his brother's shoulder, watching with wide eyes as Radu kept up two paces behind them, manuscript still clutched to his chest and his long hair billowing out behind him like a flag.

As he bounced, he considered the fact that he had been summoned by Him. He was a shadowy figure with no face in his mind, but whose boots were always remembered in perfect detail, because he always was forced to bow when He and She passed by. He would have to go stand before Him and listen to whatever He had to say. He realized that he had no clue what He sounded like, having never heard him speak and all orders for him filtering down through Mircea and the servants. He was the one who sentenced executions and ordered for Mircea to be strapped for some misdeed. He was more powerful than even his eldest brother. At the thought, his stomach churned with worry. He was frightened of Him.

They reached the wall in record time, Mircea practically tossing him over before following in one fell swoop. He managed to grab ahold of the tree limbs that they used to climb over the wall when escaping, slowing his decent enough that he was able to hit the ground with no more force than falling on his own feet. There was a solid thunk and a dull throb when the manuscripts heavy pages hit him on the head and he scrambled out of the way before Radu accidentally crushed him.

The three-story house, more a manor home and fortress than a real castle, loomed above them. Mircea grabbed both of them, his hands holding their robes, and dragged them towards the front doors. The guards let them in without precedence, but the steward scolded them sharply.

"Where were you, naughty children!?" he hissed, adjusting his plumed hat. He was already reminded of a spring bird, chirruping loudly for its own sake, when he had to encounter the steward. "Go on, go on! You're very bad to keep Him waiting!" He looked to Mircea for guidance, but the older boy was too busy half-carrying, half-dragging them towards the center room of the home. So he defaulted to Radu.

"Are we supposed to say Your Majesty when we go in?" he whispered, chancing a full sentence. Radu eyed at him doubtfully before scowling.

"You must call him Father, of course!" he snarled back, yanking his sleeve from Mircea's grasp and shoving the manuscript into the hands of a passing servant, who looked startled but obediently took it. "What are you, an idiot?" He didn't reply, turning this information over in his mind as he waited for Mircea to carrying him further. Mircea didn't, however, only ordering them to remain there in a hushed voice before stepping through the oaken doors to whatever lay beyond. He had always heard them called His and Her Majesty, or informally He and She, or Him and Her. Never had they referred to them as Father or Mother, until now. Before he had time to retort that he had never been in their presence for more than a few moments, Mircea reappeared.

"Come along, then." He held the door open and ushered them through, into the bright lights of the main solar. He squinted, his eyes already grown used to the darkness of the inner corridors. Radu stiffened beside him, and he wondered vaguely whether to bow or just wait for his brother to shove his head down as per the usual. It never came, and so when his eyes adjusted he found himself staring directly into His face.

His first thought was that Radu had His eyes, nearly black in their darkness. The second thought was more comprehension; he understood why the servants said he had His hair. It was a wild mop of untamed shadow just like his, not the smooth, silken waterfall of his two older brothers. Those dark eyes were staring back him over a prominent nose and a full beard. And he was tall, so tall, even when seated as he was. Mircea was an ant, a frog, compared to Him. He froze as well, understanding Radu's instinctive movement. Then the beard parted and spoke in a voice like thunder, rumbling around the room and settling into his chest like a thrumming song.

"I thought I asked for my sons, not these two young men. Why, they are grown already." The room laughed, and he tore his eyes away from Him to see the courtiers standing around the edges, all eyes on them in the center. He felt out of place and longed to run to Mircea, or back to the openness of the plains. This room with its confining men all around… it was like nothing he'd noticed. He looked down, grounding himself as he recognized more shoes from his bowing moments. They were shoes that followed Him and Her when they passed, like a celestial train of angels moving from one room to the next and barely, just barely brushing by the mortal world in their trek.

"Radu. Come forward. How old are you now, boy?" Slowly, his brother's limbs unfroze and he left him standing in the center of the room by himself to approach the throne.

"I am eight, Father." He was proud of him, in that moment, that his brother's voice didn't tremble. He watched with interest, comforted by the fact that Mircea should be somewhere close behind him. He had heard his laughter mixed in with the rest, after all. He looked on as His hand came out to beckon Radu closer.

"Eight already? My, my." There was a pause. "Your tutors praise your skills. They say you love to learn."

"Indeed, I do!" exclaimed the boy. This prompted a chuckle from Him.

"I see. And what might you like to learn in the future? You aren't as skilled in the sword as Mircea, I'm told." Another, longer pause as Radu fidgeted beneath His gaze, and then…

"Mathematics, or foreign languages. Logic. Astronomy."

"Astronomy, logic, mathematics and languages," He repeated slowly, rubbing his chin. "We shall see."

"T-thank you, Father." The boy sounded breathless, and when waved away, he returned to his side with eyes shining at the prospects.

"You come forward too, then." He blinked twice before realizing that it was his turn to be summoned. Gulping, he followed Radu's footsteps up to the throne, standing before the great man and staring up into his face with curiosity and fear. "And how old are you now?" There was a moment where he waited for someone to speak over him and answer for him, but to his astonishment no one did. Did they not dare to answer a question from Him, if He didn't ask them personally?

"I'll be five years next month," he replied, clearing his throat. His voice sounded small and helpless compared to the great booming tone from the man before him. "Father," he added, amused at the novelty of being able to call someone by that term.

"Five years… has it been so long?" the man mused, tilting his head. "Well," he laughed after thinking it over, "do you like to learn as well?" He tried to think of a polite way to say no, not realizing that his crinkled nose and frown said all it needed to. This earned him a louder laugh, one that startled him as it echoed throughout the solar. He took in a quick breath, words catching in his throat.

"So, what _do_ you like, boy?" He considered this question.

"I like to be outside," he answered evenly. He seemed to hear, rather than see, Radu stiffen again. _I didn't say_ _ **where**_ _outside, brother_. He resisted the urge to turn around and look at him. It was easy, when he let the dark expanses of His eyes envelope him completely.

"Outside, eh?" Again, the hand ran over the bristly hairs on his chin. "And is there anything you would like, Vlad?" The sound of his name, said by that thundering voice, cowed him. He could see why Radu didn't answer immediately, the way he would to anyone else. He tried to gather courage to speak, until the answer burst from his lips when he grew afraid his chance would be missed.

"A bow." There was silence. "Like Mircea's." He swallowed thickly. "And a sword, maybe." The ebony eyebrows rose above the dark irises, and it took all he had to keep his eyes locked with the man. Then, the entire room burst into laughter once more, and he blushed. What had he said that was funny? Why were they laughing at him?

"I told you that Vlad was a little warrior, Father." This was Mircea's voice. "He enjoys it when I let him shoot my bow, but it's too large for him." That was the truth. Ears burning, he shifted uncomfortably under the new scrutiny of the courtiers.

"Indeed he is. Perhaps he'll grow up to lead an army of his own someday," He said, and his ears burned with renewed vigor as he recognized the expression behind His beard: pride. He was proud of him? There was a heavy, comforting weight and his mouth fell open as He put His hand on his head, fingers rustling the locks. "We'll see, little warrior. We'll see."

"Thank you, Father," he murmured, following Radu's example. The man smiled down at him, but it seemed to be for all three of them. He basked in the praising expression, eyes closing as he heard something just beyond the murmurs of the courtiers.

* * *

"Master? Master." Eyes opening, he stared at the light of the evening sun glinting off blonde hair. Where was he? "Walter said to bring you this; he's too busy right now. Are you even awake?" Oh yes. He was here.

"I am." He stirred himself, looking around to see that the Police Girl had brought down his breakfast, in its usual metal pail heaped with ice. She held it out to him, but he nodded to the table and she obediently placed it there. He looked her over, checking for anything different from the night before. Even though she'd only been with him, with Hellsing, for five years, he had forgotten what it was like to wake to only humans. It was different, having someone else there, and now it had become normal. Too normal for his liking, but there it was. He wasn't getting rid of her anytime soon, and even if she wanted to leave, he wasn't sure how he'd handle it. _I'm getting too attached to her._ He understood the thought, and its implications, but he didn't really know what to do about it, so he ignored it.

"Are you on a _mission_ this evening?" She was dressed in Hellsing fatigues tonight, her long stockings traded in for the off-green slacks and long sleeves of the other soldiers. There was even a bulletproof vest on her, even though she certainly didn't need one as much as the others did. Now that she drank the blood regularly, she was becoming quite the fearsome little she-devil and even _he_ had some difficulty in shooting her. There were limitations to regular bullets, after all. "No beret?" he teased, looking back at her bare head. She laughed.

"Couldn't find one that would fit," she answered, shrugging her shoulders. "The men all have giant heads; who'd have thought?" He basked in her laugh, the way he'd once basked in his father's smile. Something about the dulcet tone struck a chord deep within him. That voice—well, her scream to be exact—was the first thing he'd noticed about her.

"And I wasn't even invited. Shocking." Her brows rose in surprise.

"You didn't know?" she asked in genuine confusion. "It's not a big mission; it's not like you needed to come along. I'm only on it because it's my troop in action."

"I heard nothing about it," he admitted. He hadn't spoken much to his master, who was perpetually angry these last few days over some nonsense with the Queen and Italy. It only concerned him long enough to understand that he wouldn't be going to fight the Judas Priest Anderson, and so he had let her deal with her own problems. When she was busy with them, she kept less of an eye on him, which meant he could go around as he pleased more often. Already he'd taken a trip to London just because he could, though he admittedly hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary while he was there.

"Well, nothing's really happened _yet_ ," she explained in puzzlement, tilting her head up as she shifted her weight onto one leg, the other tapping the stone with the toe of her boot as she thought. "I'm actually hoping to solve this peacefully; Sir Integra's okayed a solution without the use of bullets." She looked down at the pistol in her holster. "I would like to save some of that silver for a time when we really need it, you know?"

"I see." So _that's_ why he hadn't been told about this. Of course, the word 'peaceful' didn't enter his vocabulary during a mission. Most likely, his master had wanted him to stay out of it. How interesting, sending the Police Girl to do the softer negotiations and leaving him for the old-fashioned 'destroy everything in sight' ones. Then again, it's not as though she needed them both on missions anymore. He didn't really have to train her, outside of a few vampiric things that were better left for a time where they could both concentrate. And for the past few years, there hadn't been any major problems that dignified a joint supernatural response. It had given him some downtime, which he had used to catch up on happenings through his Court counsellors and deal out minor rulings and punishments through way of aviary post. "You had best get going then."

"Right, you're right," she murmured, looking up at the thin casements of the windows high above his chamber. "We have, what—half an hour before sundown?"

"Maybe a little more." She nodded and turned on her heel, waving over her shoulder.

"Then I'll go brief the guys. See ya, master."

"Good hunting, Police Girl." She paused at the moniker, and turned to him, opening her mouth. She closed it again with a tight-lipped smile and small salute before leaving. _What, was she about to say something about the name again?_ It was true, he had told her before that Police Girl was the only name she deserved to be called by, but that was long before she had grown into her powers. Did she believe it was time for her to be called Seras Victoria? If so, then why had she stopped herself? He thought it over as he poured his first glass of the evening and sipped it leisurely. Unable to think of a suitable answer, he resolved to simply ask her later and his thoughts instead drifted to his dream.

Why had he dreamed of something so small and insignificant? It wasn't as if any of that had any meaning now that over five hundred years had passed. Mircea, his father, Radu: all were gone. Two were deaths he'd wished— at one point, anyway —to have prevented, the other he'd gone out of his way to ensure. So why remember those times, and why now? Why had that been the memory he dreamed of, from a time when he cared for his brothers and his innocence in life and humanity had been intact?

At that time, he smiled merely at being recognized by someone as prominent and his father, who he had never actually looked closely at before that day. Now that he remembered it, he realized suddenly that he'd grown up to look very much like his father had. Radu had resembled their mother, aside from his eyes, and Mircea had looked a little like their father, but it was he who had grown with the wild hair, the strong facial features, the height and build. Only his pale eyes had come from his maternal roots. And even they were something of the past, never to be seen again. Rubbing his hand across his chin, he remembered the time that he too had sported a beard, though nowhere near the size and thickness of his father's. His brow furrowed, wondering to himself why the realization affected him so.

It wasn't as if it mattered now.

* * *

 **Afterword** : Took liberties, sue me if you must. (Actually, don't sue me, it's just fictionalized accounts of someone's life.) I actually did my research, but I changed some things around to suit my needs. Give me a bad review if you dare. It's not like anything will happen. _(laughs manically)_

This was supposed to be Seras's chapter, but she'll come around next chapter. Don't sue her. Unless you must.


	4. Ch 4: Seras

The fragrance of summer was in the night air. Although the moon was high enough to be seen above the city skyline, the day's warmth hadn't left the atmosphere. A cool breeze cut through the muggy dusk, bringing a scent that promised rain within the next day or so. The smell of freshly trimmed green, of blossoming flowerbeds and bushes, signaled the transition from May to June. And, as always, a bitter odor hung just above it, hardly noticeable to those who spent every day roaming London's streets; it was the odor of _city_ , of smog and sweat and food and fuel.

Seras Victoria breathed the myriad of scents that was her city, her vampiric senses enhancing and analyzing. Alongside the smells that a human would notice, her mind picked out even more. There was the dampness of the Thames, the dull musk of furry animals that made their home in the park, the flowery remnants of ladies perfume, the spicy blend of her soldiers' cologne and aftershaves, the earthy aroma of mulch and decaying leaves. She licked her lips, releasing the breath with a soft exhale. There were all of these scents, but not the one she was looking for.

There was no iron tang of blood to be found in the night.

She stood still as a statue, her eyes scanning the trees and bushes and honing in on each and every flicker of their leaves. With her so-called third eye, she could see her men picking their way through the bushes, the barest brush of their limbs against a stray twig picked up by her enhanced vision. She could hear them rustling, not unlike that of squirrels, as they spread out in groups of two and three to search the park. Even their heartbeats, out of sync with one another and quickening when startled by the breeze tickling the limbs above them, was not missed. Every once in a while one would whisper to a teammate, the male timbre low and resonating in her inner ear.

She barely tilted her head, filtering out the unneeded sounds as she listened for something unfamiliar. Her eyes slid shut, nose twitching as she focused her other senses. There was nothing but the sounds of her men and the normal tapping and chittering of night creatures. A twig snapped, footsteps coming near in a manner neither hurried nor sneaky; she opened her eyes to see her second-in-command, Corey Barkley, making his way towards her.

She knew that he saw her, standing in the middle of the clearing as she was, but his hazel gaze looked past her and towards the darker tree line behind her. The shifting limbs cast shadows over his roughened visage, helping the dark colors of his fatigues to work their magic and help him blend into the night. She heard an animal leap from one tree to another and his hands tightened automatically on the firearm he was carrying, his footsteps pausing as he listened before restarting his path.

He stepped out into the full moonlight and came to stand close to her. Although she was first captain, he looked to be over twelve years her senior. Of course, nearly six years had passed since he'd joined her troop, fresh out of the Hellsing Organization's entrance examinations. There was really only a few years difference between them, and when they'd first met he'd been nearer to her in youth and stamina. It was he who had continued to grow and age while she remained the same—in body, at least. And she'd forgotten whatever it had been that made counting birthdays something important to her as a human sometime in the interim. What was the use of doing it, when nothing outwardly would change?

"Found anything?" he asked, nearly whispering. He leaned in close to her ear, closer than any of her other men would dare come. She could smell the chowder that had been served in mess hall that evening on his breath, the hint of cheddar and potato mingling with cinnamon toothpaste and cigarettes. It was a distinctly _Barkley_ aroma, she noted. She shook her head and he rubbed a hand over the three days' worth of stubble scattered across his jaw. That, along with the eternal dark bags beneath his eyes—a common trait shared by the night shift soldiers—made him look like a homeless vagabond. Or perhaps a rugged television cop, if she was feeling particularly kind.

"Don't get it," he muttered, rising back to his full height and looking around. "We ought to have found something by now." She knew that he couldn't see half of what she did; the detailed shadows would be vague and blurry to his vision. It was easy to see how humans could be frightened of the dark, with such weak vision. Now that she could see just as easily at night as she could during the day, she found the murky shadows of nighttime to be infinitely more convenient compared to daylight, as well as comforting in a sort of odd, yet endearing manner. Perhaps it was just an instinctive vampire coping mechanism, to grow to care so much for something that one had to live in for eternity.

"I'd have thought so," she agreed hesitantly, crossing her arms. When Walter had given her the mission, he'd told her that the target was a vampire. But, now that she was out in the park and could see things as they were, she was really beginning to doubt the old butler's initial thoughts. Everything within her screamed that it _wasn't_ a vampire they were trying to track down at all. And her master, though his lessons were often annoying and frustratingly difficult, had taught her that the golden rule was to listen to her gut feeling over all things. _Your instincts will not lie to you, Police Girl. Trust in them, and you'll never have to second-guess yourself ever again._

If it had been a vampire they were searching for, even a timid one that erred on the side of caution, they would have surely flushed it out by now. If it were in the park, in any case. A vampire was, by nature, a defensive creature. She knew that if it were her in these woods, she'd have already been searching for a way to get to a safe place to hide at. The trees would not protect anyone from the sun, and even if this _was_ a favored hunting ground the vampire would be stupid enough to trust that they'd give up and go home before dawn came. There would be a Plan B in place beforehand, in the case that something like this even came up.

 _Of course, that would only be true if the vampire had been properly raised, Police Girl._ This wasn't Alucard in her mind, but rather her mind's _version_ of him, surfacing with snarky commentary every time she had to work through a difficult problem and needed something to bounce her inner thoughts off of. Ever since she'd grown into her powers and began drinking the blood, he'd actually backed off a little and let her do her own thing. It was only when she was overly defiant that he resumed the true role of master and forced her hand. In most cases, he was becoming more of a confidant and—dare she think it— _friend_ rather than a mentor. He didn't invade her mind unless she called for him, he didn't show up at the training grounds and drag her away for impromptu lessons, and if he was in a very good mood he'd even give a single courtesy knock as he barged into her room. He was becoming less of someone to fear, and more someone to spend boring evenings with, to mock and banter with, and to spar with without having to remember to pull her punches.

 _Even if it were one of the few chipped vampires left after we destroyed the bases, wouldn't they know not to hang around in an open park? That's common sense._

 _Would you know half the 'common sense' things about vampires that you do if I had just left you in the church?_ The snide mimicry of her master laughed. _It's only because I was a good master and actually taught you what you needed to know._

 _Yeah, yeah. Gold star for you._ Seras licked her lips again, tasting the breeze. Still no blood in the air, and no startled gasps from her men either. _I don't get it_ , she repeated mentally.

 _Take a moment to think, Police Girl. What do you know about the vampire, if it_ _ **is**_ _a vampire? What did Walter tell you before you left?_ Seras thought back to her briefing with the butler.

 _Well, for one, there were classic signs of vampire activity. Humans waking up along the park embankment with no memories, feeling weak and lethargic. Besides the memory lapses, people have been reporting a strange woman, or women, in the park. They couldn't give any specific features, another sign of supernatural activity._ She paused, gathering her thoughts. _The women were vanishing like mist, or ghosts, along the embankment. The few victims that could remember anything spoke of strangely colored eyes._

 _And? What else?_

 _They were… undressed. No,_ she thought _, that's not right. They weren't completely undressed, not really. And there were no signs of sexual abuse or even bodily harm._ The victims had all been missing strange things, all different articles of clothing. A teenage girl was down one purple striped scarf, a man lost his cap, a child's mittens were missing, a woman's blouse was gone but the jacket remained, a baby's hair ribbons vanished, and even a businesswoman's cheap cubic zirconium earrings were reported nowhere to be found.

 _A magpie vampire,_ her version of Alucard laughed mockingly. _Or—?_

 _I couldn't say,_ Seras admitted, staring down at her boots.

"Maybe we could throw a few pieces of clothing around, to see if that would draw whoever it is out into the open?" she suggested aloud to Barkley. The man hummed thoughtfully.

"You know something, Captain?" he asked. She nodded for him to continue. "I was looking over the reports while Walter was talking to you. Did you notice? All of the clothing taken was from the upper half of the body. No one was missing their trousers or shoes. Not even their socks were out of place."

"Well, it'd be hard to nip someone's knickers in the open," Seras pointed out, "but I see your point. Maybe the vampire was taking them off and was afraid of being found out? Maybe they weren't able to start feeding because they were interrupted? But," she continued with a sigh, "that doesn't make any sense either. The vampire would either come back later to feed, or just stop coming to the park if they kept getting interrupted like that. They wouldn't go hungry."

"And there weren't any tooth markings or cuts on the victims, either." Barkley sighed as well. "The biggest injury anyone reported was a scraped knee, and that didn't break the skin." He scratched his head, upsetting his maroon beret. "What's this bloke's deal, then? Cause them to faint, mesmerize them or what have you, and then leave without eating? And take their clothes as what—some sort of trophy?"

"It may be some fledgling vampire's idea of fun," Seras mused. "Something harmless, with the added thrill of being caught to get a rush from. Maybe they were never planning on eating anyone in the first place?"

"If that's the case, what'll we do?"

"Hopefully a stern dressing down would get them to cut it out," Seras answered. "If I can stop it without firing, I'll do it. I don't think Sir Integra would have a problem with it, since they haven't harmed anyone yet, or made any Ghouls that we know of."

"She probably wouldn't even know about it," Barkley huffed. "You know she's been really distracted lately."

"You're right…." Seras knew that Sir Integra had been travelling a lot, or at least leaving the house more than usual. She didn't know why, only that she took Walter with her instead of Alucard every time. She was looking haggard lately as well, her hair dull and eyes bleary instead of her usual acute, well-dressed perfection. She was even kinder, or at the very least too distracted with something to be cold and aloof when giving orders or making comments on mission reports. Seras thought that Alucard would have let her in on any important details, but maybe it was more of a government thing and not any official Hellsing business. "She seems to be swamped lately, doesn't she?" Barkley's expression turned sly.

"I overheard Walter talking with Cook yesterday in line for food," he admitted. "Walter was saying that Sir Integra had to go to Italy and take some sort of competency test at the Vatican." Seras's mouth fell open in surprise.

"Had to?" she blurted, unable to believe her ears. "What do you mean, 'had to'? Since when does she listen to the Vatican?" Although she wasn't involved in any of the sketchy politics that surrounded the upper levels of the Organization, in her eyes the Vatican and that awful Iscariot were one and the same. She hadn't officially met any of the Iscariots other than the hulking holy man Anderson, but she'd seen the silver-haired leader from far off once when he'd come to London on business and she'd been face to face with one of the other members when a mission had gone dicey two years ago. The nun, who had been just as surprised to see her as she'd been to see them, had formed a silent temporary truce with her until the vampire was ash. Then she'd been kind enough to give her a head start before trying to kill her. Seras, who was by no means as bloodthirsty as Alucard, cut her losses, counted the victory over the vampire as one for Hellsing, and hit the high road.

"Well, the way they were talking, she was under pressure from the Queen to take the test," Barkley shrugged. "I didn't get to hear it all, since the line was moving quickly. They were whispering about it, anyway, so it's not like I cou—"

"Shh!" His mouth shut with an audible snap as Seras turned her head, eyes straining to see through the trees to the water's edge. "Did you hear that?"

"No." Barkley was listening too, his ear tilted towards the sky and cupped by his palm. He squinted as they waited for another sound. "What was it?"

"It was… a splash."

"A splash?" he repeated with a laugh. "The river's already too loud as it is. How could you pick up something like a splash? Even the way you are?" Seras rolled her eyes; even though Barkley was far more accepting of her true nature than some of the others, he still managed to make being a vampire sound like some sort of disability.

"I just can," she snapped. "It was a big splash."

"A fish?"

"Bigger than a fish. Like… an anchor or something. That sort of splash." It was true; the Thames was close enough that the noise of its waters created a natural barrier for hearing. But to Seras, it was little more than background noise. She found that she could focus much more easily on something small rather than a loud sound. She wasn't at all sure why, but from her experience it seemed that it was a trait all vampires shared. She'd be damned if one could hear her footsteps even when they were _underneath_ the Pistyll Rhaeadr in a rainstorm.

"Can you still hear it?"

"No," she admitted in frustration. "It's gone now. It was… plopping, sort of." She looked out towards the embankment, but it was too hidden by the tree line. She could only see the glimmer of water through the trees. "I think I'll go take a look. Isn't there a path around here to get to the water?"

"There's a handrail back that way," Barkley said, pointing to the way he'd come. "But it's over a steep drop."

"Show me." She followed behind him as he picked his way back through the trees, this time slower and more methodically as he searched for the way to the handrail. After a few hesitant moments he found it and began to move with purpose, though still quietly. Then, as they rounded a sort of natural bend where the slope of the hill began to decline, she saw the handrail he was talking about. It was rusted and covered in ivy, but still a visible marker along the path. Moving to it, she looked down and saw a two-story drop down to a gulley. It was uneven and rocky on the sides, but she could see a natural erosion path carving through the underbrush.

"I'm going down this way," she told him, hoisting a leg over the railing and happy that she'd chosen to wear pants instead of her usual tights. "Find a staircase if you can and join me; I don't' think you'd be able to pull off a drop like this." He nodded. "If you see any of the others, tell them to keep looking. If this vampire _is_ in the Thames and I startle it, it might run up into the park. Tell them to keep their guard up."

"Got it." He watched her ease herself over the railing and teeter on the edge of the drop, her hands using the rail for balance. "Be careful." Without further ado, he turned and disappeared back around the slope bend. She listened until she was sure he'd made the clearing again before letting go of the railing and falling into a natural backflip. Her boots connected with one of the large rocks and she used the momentum to throw herself over to the softer soil of the eroded path, rolling before landing on her feet like a parkour jumper. Other than the solid tap of her boots against the rock, she'd made no sound.

Bending down, she could see the edge of the embankment just down the path. She took her time, trying to remain completely silent as her boots skidded and slid down the softy packed earth. Ducking again, she scanned the embankment to make absolutely sure she was alone before stepping into the light.

The full moon shone down brightly, the night sky cloudless and stars twinkling merrily. Even if there were clouds, the light pollution from the river cast everything into enough of a glow that it was easy to make out the features of her surroundings. Looking around, she saw the embankment ended in a rocky peninsula to her left, and extended on towards the park to her right. Where she stood, there was a narrow strip of grassy land that formed a steep hill, dropping straight off into the water. The trees extended over the hill, their boughs waving over the water. It was a secluded area, cut off by the trees from the main path, which she was certain had to bend somewhere near her right in order to reach the water down towards the main park.

This was near where the victims were found, and it was easy to see how there were no witnesses. The trees formed a natural wall of sorts, making it hard for anyone to see what was happening from the path. Only someone who strayed from it deliberately could have even caught a glimpse of the banks from the forested area. Looking out across the rippling waters, she could see the opposite banks. The pulse of nightclubs reverberated in the night, small forms of people wandering about barely visible; it was easy to detach oneself from the view, to pretend that the world across the river was another place entirely and not part of the same London she was standing in at the moment.

She scanned the water, looking for what could have been making the noise she'd heard. She saw nothing, not even a boat or barge. Frowning, she took quick peeks up and down the bank. There was no way for anyone to have gone in either direction without her noticing. Even if they'd gone up into the trees, they would have had to use more effort on the steep climb and she'd have heard them. And most vampires _were_ afraid of running water, but only because they had never learned to swim. It was a myth that was slowly falling out of style now that people were more open to recreational swimming and didn't automatically sink in water like a stone. Perhaps the vampire had swum away, but… perhaps it was just a fish, too.

Maybe if she could look more closely at the water, she could find some hint that something had been there. Perhaps she could even find the vampire itself, hiding beneath the lapping surface and waiting for her to leave. Getting on her hands and knees, she bent down to look at the water. It was deep here where she was, though she knew that the main park sported shallows. It was clouded enough that she couldn't see the bottom, but the water wasn't swirling in a way that suggested it had recently been upset by someone or something jumping in.

She leaned over further, her nose only an inch or two from the water's surface and her wrists bearing the brunt of her weight to keep her from falling. Her fingers knotted in the thin grass that grew in clumps around the embankment as an extra precaution. The water was ebbing and flowing in soothing, natural motions, lapping against the embankment. She could hear it trickling over the rocky peninsula, and the soft dripping of exposed roots being splashed by the tiny waves and then letting gravity return the water to the river. She yawned; if she weren't on a mission, she might have leaned back against the soft cushion of the grassy slope and relaxed.

She was about to rise to her feet when something in the water caught her eye. Looking closely, she made out a large, knotted piece of driftwood. Weeds were entangled in the branches, and it was being borne along by the grimy water. Probably it had somehow floated in from someplace else, or perhaps a child had unthinkingly thrown it in as a bit of sport. However, as large as it was, she doubted it. Probably a tree had fallen into the water, and this was what was left of it bumping against the embankment. Tilting her head, she stared down at it ponderingly.

The driftwood tilted too.

Not all of it, or even three fourths, but just the top. Seras blinked twice in rapid succession, her brain trying to make sense of what she'd just witnessed. The driftwood was just out of arm's reach beneath the surface, and even when she nearly touched her nose to the water she couldn't make out anything other than the knotted surface and the wet, floating strands tangled up in it. She tilted her head the other way, wondering if it were some sort of trick of the light.

The driftwood tilted too.

Jerking back in shock, her butt connected with the grass and she sat, dazed. That was not a trick of the light, and it certainly wasn't some sort of strange movement of the waves. Driftwood didn't just move _against_ the motion of water like that. Swallowing hard, she was gathering courage to look into the water again when there was a movement on the edge of the embankment.

One limb, glistening darkly with water droplets, rose from the water and grabbed the same grass that she had just been using to anchor herself to the shore. The wood smacked about, as if feeling its way, and then split into four long, elegant twig fingers with an extra knotted knuckle and a fifth, thumb-like appendage farther down the branch than a normal thumb would be on a hand. Another, equally long and strikingly eerie limb came and repeated the motion with another clump of grass.

 _Oh, great_. Seras backed away from the water in a crab crawl, afraid to turn her back towards the water. _The tree is coming from the water. Probably to kill me or… steal my vest or something._ With a mighty effort, the log heaved itself from the water and rested—face up? face down?—on the grass, wet strands of weeds flying everywhere. Face down, it was, for the limbs elongated at a joint not unlike an elbow and the weeds were shaken back to show a torso. A naked torso, with small, firm breasts like unformed branches on a trunk and a little dip for a navel on the flat, smooth belly.

The log balanced expertly on the edge of the embankment, fingers parting the weeds to show a face. It was a dainty little face, ugly and yet beautiful at the same time. The weeds—no, hair, it was _hair_ , stringy, flat little ringlets that reminded Seras of kelp she'd seen washed ashore the beach. The face was unnaturally pointed at the chin; the skin resembled the color of aspen wood. Seras could see why she had thought it was driftwood, considering the eyebrows were not made up of the same hair, but instead off-colored dark fuzz that looked very much like bark.

The irises were nearly black and melded with pupil until one was nearly indistinguishable from the other. The whites of the eye were a greyish brown. The eyes themselves were three times larger than normal eyes and wider set, making the thin nose seem even smaller in comparison. The lips were brown, and they were currently open partway to show small blunt squares of teeth.

It was a moment before Seras realized that the creature was staring intently at her the same way she was staring at it. Slowly, so slowly, she moved to her hands and knees. She didn't want to scare it off. The thing tilted its head again, more of the kelp hair falling over one shoulder to reveal more of the torso. Around its neck was a string of rocks, worn smooth by the water. Seras inched towards the water, more curious and wary than really, truly afraid. Despite the otherworldly appearance of the thing, it seemed to be harmless. It was actually sort of pretty, in an alien sort of way. There was a certain grace in the way it held itself—herself, she assumed by the breasts—and it's expression reminded her of some kind of sprite.

As she watched, the lower half of the creature raised in the air, paused a moment, and then flicked back down into the water with a _sploosh_ identical to the one she'd heard while standing in the clearing with Barkley.

"You… you're a mermaid," she breathed, unable to believe her eyes. She'd never imagined that mermaids even existed! The creature stared at her, and she realized foolishly that the mermaid might not be able to speak or even understand English. However, it seemed merely taken aback, for it paused and then spoke.

"I am _syreni_." The tone was sweet and pleasant, but it was said in a peculiar, garbled way that threw Seras off for a moment. Then she realized what the matter was—this was a voice made for speaking underwater, and in the air it sounded the same as someone trying to speak with their head stuck in a rain barrel. "Are you a nightwalker?"

"I'm a vampire," Seras stated. The lower half of the creature lifted again, and Seras stared in awe at the thick, sinewy tendon that ran down the length of the tail, controlling its movement. The tail looked fuzzy to the touch, the shimmering beech scales covered in a downy fuzz and lichen-esque spotting. The fins were the span of a grown man's arm on either side of the tail, translucent and segmented like that of a Siamese fighting fish. Their color was an ombre that ran from brown to emerald sheen, adding depth to the fins. Seras wanted, quite suddenly, to run her hand along the fin and the words had left her mouth before she could consider etiquette.

Can I touch your tail?" The left bark-eyebrow rose, brown lips twitched in amusement, and she felt her face flush red. "I mean, it's just that I've never met a mermaid before and I'm curious. I didn't think you existed."

"Is that the land term for _syreni_? Mer-maid?" The creature asked, sinking back down in the water. Seras thought that it might be leaving and her heart sunk in disappointment, but it was only twisting, offering its tail out within touching range. Seras ran her hand gently across the thin, soft fin until she reached the tail. The warmth surprised her, as did the feel of the shifting muscle and the soft, almost silky texture of the scales. Now that she felt it, she could see that it wasn't downy fuzz on the tail, but some sort of algae.

"Yes," Seras murmured, completely enraptured in the tail that was now draped across her lap in an informal way. She petted the lichen spots, the algae down, and then after a moment of committing the textures to memory she politely removed her hands and allowed the tail to dip back into the water, scooting up to the bank and resting her boots against the edge. She was sure the mermaid wouldn't try to hurt her. "Thank you for that."

"You're welcome," it replied civilly, bobbing in the water for a moment before pulling itself back up onto the bank.

"Is nightwalker a… sea term?" Seras wasn't sure what the proper term was, but the mermaid seemed to know what she meant.

"Yes." It reached out a hand. "May I touch you in return? I've never seen any sort of land creature before. This is my first voyage to the surface," it added confidentially, with a grin. "I wasn't sure what to expect, but certainly not a nightwalker." Seras obediently ducked her head down and felt the multi-jointed fingers touch her gently. "Did you really not know that we existed?" The wooden fingers felt her hair, dampening it, then stroked the skin of her cheek and her lips with a feather touch. Its eyes lit in wonder and it tilted its head again, touching its own lips and face for comparison. "Nightwalkers are so smooth!" it gasped, more to itself than to Seras.

"Well, we're just humans, only—" At the word, the mermaid's eyes sparkled with a new glow.

"Oh, how I'd love to meet a human! I've heard that their eyes can be the color of the sky, or kelp, or glaciers or…." It trailed off, overcome with the possibilities. "Yours are the color of a red sea star," it noted after a moment's thought. Seras flushed with some confusion; people had called her eyes 'rubies' and 'bloody', but she had never heard her irises likened to a starfish before. "But still, continue."

"Um, well… I thought mermaids lived in the ocean, not the Thames. That's why you caught me off guard," Seras half-lied, shrugging. It was embarrassing that a mermaid would know of vampires, but she didn't know of them.

"We do," the mermaid giggled, as though she found the comment to be silly rather than serious. "We've only come upstream to create a haven for the Deceased."

"The… deceased?" Seras frowned at the thought. "You mean to tell me that you're putting corpses in the river? You can't do that—it's unsanitary." The mermaid's brow wrinkled, taking on the appearance of withered bark. It didn't seem to understand. "Please tell me exactly what you're doing with your… deceased," Seras sighed. Maybe this was some sort of misunderstanding. "First of all, what happens when mermaids die? The human stories say that you become seafoam."

"Seafoam?" Rather than laughing, the mermaid grew contemplative, picking at the grass beneath its fingers. "I am not sure how it is done above land, to be honest. Does your kind have Death Days? Do humans?"

"Uh… no, I've never heard of them. What are they?"

"When mermaids are created by the Mother Sea, we are given the dates of our eventual demises. When that time comes, the souls return to become part of Our Mother again, leaving behind the bones of what once was."

"What, really?!" Seras bent closer to the mermaid. "You know what day you'll die on the day that you're born?" The mermaid nodded. "But what about accidents? You know, something happening, some crazy act of nature?"

"It is impossible to kill a mermaid before their Death Day. That is a fated and blessed occasion."

"But… isn't it scary to know?" Seras tucked her legs up and rested her head on her knees, arms wrapping around them. "When you'll die, I mean."

"Is it frightening, do you mean?" it clarified. "Why should it be? It is a goal, something to look forward to." A look of rapture crossed its wooden features. "The day that we will be reunited with Our Mother and the Sisters who have passed before. Everything we learn, everything we strive to become, will be joined together in the vast waters of knowledge so that the Sisters who will come after can be better prepared than we ever were or will be."

"Wow, that's… most people are afraid of death here on the land," Seras explained, voice muffled by her knees. The mermaid listened with an expression of keen interest.

"Why?"

"Well, I guess… I guess because it's such a mystery. No one really knows what comes after this life, so it becomes something frightening because it's new. Some people turn to religion, some people just live in the moment, some people…." She thought, suddenly, of Alucard. "Some people find ways to cheat death, so they don't have to face it head on."

"That's so sad." Seras blinked in surprise. "As a _syreni_ , I know for a fact that I came from Mother, and that I'll return to her when my day comes. Humans do not have that peace…. How stressed and anxious they must feel, to think about their deaths." The mermaid pursed her lips. "Perhaps it is better, then, that you do not know your Death Days."

"Maybe," Seras agreed. "Anyway, so you mean that you were bringing your bones to the Thames? The bones of what once was," she quoted.

"Yes, my Sisters and I—our entire clan—decided to hide the bones here on the Roman island where ancient protections are still in place. It was hard on us, when we had to disturb their rest in the undersea caverns. A few of my Sisters cried. But… the Eldest claims that it's for the best." It looked past Seras and gasped. "Nightwalker, is that… is _that_ a human?" it squeaked excitedly. Seras turned to see Barkley standing at the tree line, the whites of his eyes visible as he gawked at the creature. As she watched, the firearm fell from his hand to the ground, clattering at his feet.

"It's okay," Seras told him, reaching out a hand. "Come sit by me." He regarded her with panicked eyes, but inched forward until he was standing just behind her. "This is my second captain, Corey Barkley," she told the mermaid. "Corey, this is… um—" She turned back to the mermaid. "What _is_ your name? I'm sorry that I never asked it."

"I am Eione, may the knowledge serve you."

"Corey Barkley," Barkley croaked before clearing his throat. "I take it this is what you were hearing, Captain?"

"Yes," Seras answered. "Oh, and I'm Seras, by the way. Seras Victoria." Eione offered a small smile.

"Like the star, Ceres. A lovely name for one destined to become a nightwalker."

"I don't know about destined…" Seras's shoulders slumped as she considered the possibility. "I've never been one for trusting in fate, myself."

"You aren't gonna, um, try to pull me into the water or anything, are you?" Barkley asked, already recovered from his shock and returning to his usual bluntness. "I heard mermaids do that kind of thing." He was watching her tail, resting on the surface of the water.

"That's untrue," Eione told him, just as plainly as he'd asked her. "Humans cannot breathe the water, so it's pointless to bring you down, unless you asked me to." Barkley considered this, and then knelt down to one knee beside Seras.

"Alright then," he conceded, resting his arm on his upright knee. "Pleasure to meet you, madam."

"Ma-dam?" The mermaid giggled again. "This human is different from you," she said to Seras. "You are not formed the same."

"That's because he's a boy and I'm a girl," Seras answered, flustered. The mermaid stared up uncomprehendingly. "Um, girls and boys have to be different in order to… you know… have kids."

"Ohhhh." It considered this. "We all come from Mother, so I suppose that's why we're all the same."

"Not to change the subject, but I think we've gotten off topic." Seras motioned to Barkley to make himself comfortable. "Why do you need the—er—protection of the river? Why did you have to move the bones?"

"Do you not know?" the mermaid asked, this time with more alarm than confusion. "I would have thought that the nightwalkers would—"

"I don't talk to a lot of other vampires," Seras interrupted. "Only— well, actually only one other. And he can be a jerk sometimes and not tell me everything I need to know."

"Do not leave the island," the mermaid ordered in full seriousness. "You are safe here, on this land. There are spells in place to protect the people of the island, spells from ages before the Romans ever found this place."

"Why would I not be safe elsewhere?" Barkley leaned closer, listening to their conversation with a frown.

"I cannot even speak the name; it is forbidden," the mermaid whispered, fingers fisting in the grass. "Only the Eldest can—"

"Then take me to the Eldest," Seras demanded. "I don't have to breathe, and I can swim just fine." The mermaid hesitated. "I _need_ to know, in case its important." If there was something out there getting supernatural creatures in a tizzy, it would do her well to report it to Walter and Sir Integra. Alucard might even already know about whatever it was and had deemed it not worthy of notice, but it was better to be safe rather than sorry. It tapped its lips with one finger thoughtfully.

"I could, but… I would need an offering for her." The mermaid looked up hopefully at them. "The Sisters who have already come to the surface have brought back interesting offerings for the Eldest. Some of them they were allowed to keep."

"Well, there you have it." Seras looked at Barkley, who was grinning. "Guess mermaids don't really need knickers, do they?" he laughed.

"You have been the ones confusing the humans and taking their clothes?" Seras scoffed, lowering her legs and crossing her arms. "Stealing is a crime, you know."

"I cannot speak for my other Sisters," Eione replied smoothly. "Our song has an effect on humans, I've been told. It sends them into a stupor. But if they truly have been taking things without asking, it was only as an offering to the Eldest in return for being allowed to the surface." Seras glared down at her, and to her surprise its aspen cheeks darkened a little. "Some brought back flowers and tree branches," it murmured, as if trying to redeem its race.

"Still, I need to see the Eldest if you can't tell me. All I have to offer are my gloves," she said, yanking off one of her gloves and handing it down to the mermaid, who didn't accept it.

"The Eldest already has hand garments," the mermaid said apologetically. "If you want me to secure a visit, you'll have to offer something very special."

"What about this?" Barkley pulled the beret from his head. "This hat is special. Not everyone gets to wear one. Only Organization operatives." The mermaid's eyes glowed and she took the hat, fingering the Hellsing logo before jamming it on her head. It looked odd, pressing down her kelp hair, but she seemed pleased.

"Can you bring another?" it asked after swimming a few small circles and looking at its reflection in the water. "I have an idea. If I can keep this one for myself, I can say that you will bring another just like it for the Eldest if you are allowed to come."

"Sure, we can get more," Barkley told it. Seras glared at him and he arched a brow. "What? You want to get down there, don't you?" he asked in an undertone. "Walter won't notice a beret or two missing from the supply. He's got bigger things to worry about right now."

"Don't be sneaky," Seras reprimanded him, but in all honesty his plan, and Eione's, sounded better and better. Plus, she was naturally curious about the mermaids and this Eldest.

"Wonderful! I will go now and tell them that a creature from the surface wants an audience with them. In three days' time, come back to the bank at dusk and wait for me, with the other hat. I will tell you of their decision and, if they agree, take you down with me to the clan."

* * *

 **Afterword** : TL;DR- mermaids are sneaky creatures of the sea who want your pretty accessories.


	5. Ch 5: Integra II

"Walter, you're late." There was an _again_ , but it held on the edge of her tongue, a bitter tasting word that was too easy to let slide back down her throat. Instead, she opted for as much patience as she could muster under the circumstances and threw the blame of her impatience upon someone else. "Her Majesty doesn't like to be kept waiting." It was true, but her real reason wasn't to please the queen. She'd be damned if she let that slime of a bishop Maxwell—or his cronies, for that matter—have reason to say that Sir Hellsing was an unpunctual woman.

"My apologies, ma'am." He adjusted his black tie in a fit of rare self-consciousness, and she realized that he really was rushed. Normally, he'd have his outfit 'settled' before appearing as her escort. She bit her tongue, letting him take the extra moment he needed. She wasn't sure why he insisted on dressing up to the nines when they were just going to a quick meeting at the palace. Was there need for such formality? She was only wearing her second-best suit, the same she'd have donned to greet company in her own home.

"What took you?" she asked as she turned and walked out the door, assuming that he would follow once he finished adjusting his cufflinks. She heard hurried steps behind her, and then he answered once they were down the stairs and on the main walk.

"Surprisingly, it was Ms. Victoria." She said nothing for a moment, nodding cordially to the men who stopped and saluted her. She didn't expect it of them, but she suspected that Walter _did_ —the number of men who checked themselves around her more than doubled if he was following in her wake. Not that she minded; really, she probably ought to run a tighter ship where the common soldiers were concerned. But her father had never expected more than respect and common sense from them, and she couldn't bring herself to demand flowery gestures and formal speech when they were more forthcoming in an informal setting.

"Agent Victoria, you say?" He walked ahead of her to open the back door of the car. "Out of the ordinary for _her_ to be the vampire making mischief." _Must be a blue moon,_ she added lightly to herself. He didn't answer until he was behind the steering wheel and had buckled himself in.

"Hats, ma'am." He paused. "I have the feeling that she and First Captain Barkley are hiding something, though I can't put my finger on what." He started the car and pulled out of the drive.

"Some plot of her master's, no doubt." She was already tuning him out, her mind turning to the upcoming meeting. It had been scheduled so quickly, barely a full business week after returning from that god-awful psychoanalysis. No one had said anything topic-wise, but after consulting Sir Penwood it seemed as though no one but Her Majesty knew the real reason. Sir Penwood had even confided in her that he'd heard, through a reliable source of his own, that the Iscariots didn't fully know the reason they'd been called to England, and that the Pope would be in the meeting as well.

"Oh, I rather doubt Alucard is involved as something as domestic as clothing," Walter murmured, steering through traffic. "And he's hardly one to choose a soldier's uniform. If I dare say so, he has rather… unique… tastes in fashion."

"A product of his time," she quipped absently, watching the sidewalks flash past. The windows to the car were tinted, so no one walking the streets would see her watching them. They paused at a light and she watched two young women, perhaps her own age, chatting underneath a streetlight. One was in leather with at least five colors in her red braid, while the other was dressed in a white fur coat as fluffy as her elegant blonde curls. They both wore sunglasses: one dark aviator and one cat's eye, white rimmed. As if sensing eyes on them, they both turned towards the street; she thought she saw a flash of red as the gap between the glasses and face passed through her view.

 _Vampires?_ She wondered, observing silently as the women looked about before returning to their previous conversation. They were certainly not dressed to blend in with the common crowd; their clothing was highly unseasonable, even for the so-called 'English chill'. One would think that being a vampire would automatically entail hiding in sheep's clothing among one's prey. Yet Alucard made no effort to be subtle, and if these were indeed Nosferatu, they were attracting more than enough stares. Perhaps they were just two women with odd taste, or they were headed to a costume party. She could see no other reason for them both to be wearing such heavy coats.

They drove on and she didn't mention it to Walter. After all, vampires sometimes outnumbered the regular population in smaller towns. They were the cockroaches of the supernatural world—though perhaps that was too harsh a comparison. In reality, the majority of them passed through life as common garden spiders, everywhere and yet hurting no one. They fed on humans without turning them and quietly went about their business, just another part of the supernatural ecosystem. She was not concerned with _them_. It was the ones who stepped out of line and caused wanton chaos that kept her busy. She had enough on her plate without seeking to eradicate every vampire that ever poked its head out from a ruined castle and sought to visit England.

"Besides," Walter continued, and she realized that he'd been talking the entire time while she'd outright ignored him. "Alucard's been rather introspective lately, don't you think? He's not said more than a handful of words to me these two weeks past. Something's on his plate, though I couldn't even begin to say what."

"Deciding his fall wardrobe," she muttered, still only half paying attention.

"What?" She shook the cobwebs from her head at the sharpness of his question, replaying the conversation.

"I meant only that his moods change as frequently as the seasons," she excused herself, a little perturbed at her own lack of focused thought. She needed to be in top form today if she was to go head to head with that Maxwell. "It's no business of mine what he thinks about in his spare time, as long as he continues to follow orders."

"I suppose," Walter said, inclining his head as far as he was able while still keeping his eyes on the road. "But you have to admit that his mental health is cause for concern even when he's somewhat pleasant."

"What do you want me to do?" she asked bluntly, leaning her forearm against the cloth covered interior of the door. "Shall I call him into my office and request he seek counseling? Or should I bring the psychologist to the dungeon instead?"

Walter pursed his lips, but wisely remained silent.

* * *

They met Sir Penwood in the foyer, who was just arriving himself and had come in from the east door. He was, as always, both unassuming and slightly pathetic. From the time they'd first met, on a sunny afternoon, she'd thought him as someone to be pitied. Added with his cowardly nature and abundant perspiration she might have even disdained him, had his mannerisms not suited her taste. He had a dry, tongue-in-cheek humor that sat well with her, he was highly intelligent despite the shortcomings in his entailed position, and he shared her love of fencing and chess, though he admittedly had slacked off the former in recent years. These things, combined with the fact that he sometimes backed her against Sir Irons during meetings, had her fonder of him than she was any of the other knights.

"Well met, Sir Integra," he sighed, already fishing for a handkerchief in his pocket. He pulled out one, unfolded it to see embroidered floral designs all around the hem, and colored.

"It seems as though you grabbed the wrong one, Sir Penwood," she said good-humoredly. He gave her a doleful glance from under his thin brows before pocketing the handkerchief again and sacrificing the cleaner one in his breast pocket to wipe the sheen from his forehead.

"Kitty gets it into her mind to switch out drawers and change sides, all that silly nonsense. I hate to say it, but I'd rather her be out spending my money than moving about the house in such restlessness." He paused for a moment, looking down at his polished shoes. "She never used to do such things; it has me worried."

"She's only restless because your son's off finding himself on the gibber plains and won't spare the time to phone home every fortnight or so. There's no need to be worried over _that_."

"No, I suppose you're right." He looked away, fingering the handkerchief before shoving it into the same pocket as the other. "It only reminded me of my own father, back when he first began to lose himself." He scratched at his mustache with one finger. "He'd wander around the house and move all the pots and pans into the clothes cupboards if you didn't keep a watch after him." He'd told her, long ago, that his father had lost both mind and memory in his old age. "I'm about the age when he first started doing those things, now. And Kitty's only two years younger."

"I doubt either of you are suffering from senile dementia just yet. You're too sound of mind, and Lady Katherine has told me herself that nothing is going to take her from this world until she's good and ready to go, so anything debilitating is immediately out of the question." She smiled, continuing her light conversation as they moved into the main hall. "And if by some way she _was_ struck down in illness, I daresay she'd defy even the most qualified doctors on the subject and would worry you even more by going shopping when she should be home in bed."

"That's Kitty alright," he huffed as two guards stepped forward and opened the large oaken doors that led to the grand hall. "She's already made me promise thrice over to tell her every detail of today's meeting. I might as well force Irons to induct her in my place and retire early. God knows she'd probably get things moving in this damned—but I say, Irons! How did you beat us both here?" The man in question turned his head to look them over as they approached, his fingers laced on the table before him.

"I had my man take me over earlier so that I could look over what little information I was able to glean about this meeting." His notes were, in fact, spread on the table beneath his linked hands. "It's not much, but I'd like to be as prepared as possible. I assume the two of you read my debriefing emails?"

"Yes, Sir." Integra sat to his right, Penwood taking the seat to _her_ right. Walter, mindful more than ever of his position while in a house of royalty, stood elegantly behind her chair. "Is no one else coming? I had thought you'd mentioned the rest of the Knights would be in attendance."

"I thought Walsh at least," Penwood added, looking around the room. Her eyes followed his. The polished interior of the grand hall was as stately as ever, from the white pillars that stretched from glassy marble floor to high vaulted ceiling to the red ribbons that stretched down the hall, flanked by thin strips of white that accented their stark color. Her eye was automatically drawn to the thin, long steps that stood at the other end of the hall; there were two seats, a throne and a place of equal worth for a valued guest. Both were empty.

The elderly man shook his head, resettling his glasses on his nose.

"Walsh is here, waiting in the gallery. Grey and Summerland as well. When the others come, that's where they'll be directed, under orders of Her Majesty."

"But why?" Penwood asked. Irons looked unperturbed.

"Her Majesty only wanted the head of the RTC, head of International Security, and head of the Hellsing Organization to be present at this meeting." Despite his outward appearance, she knew him well enough to know that the order had unsettled him somewhat, as well as ignited a rare vein of curiosity in his withered chest. "Speaking of Organizations, Integra: you did bring Walter, and Walter alone? Even your soldiers…" he trailed off intentionally.

"Yes. "Those were my standing orders, after all," she replied with a smile. "But I don't mind. I trust Walter well enough to handle any situation that might arise." Truth be told, she'd enjoy seeing those razor-sharp wires cutting into Maxwell's face, cleanly slicing the metal of his glasses in twain. She knew that the Queen hadn't wanted Alucard there for obvious reasons, the main one being the vampire's penchant for sliding through loopholes as easily as his mist could slide through the smallest chink in a wall.

Irons nodded, satisfied in this answer. Penwood's eyes slid to Walter and back, their hazy blueness unaffected by her blind trust. He was saved any retort, however, by the far doors opening to allow four more to join their trio, two the same size, one small, and one hulking over the rest. She meant to stare with her normal expression of Vatican contempt and slight mockery, but the small figure blew whatever pre-approved look she planned on making out of the water.

"Good evening, everyone!" That chipper voice, the blunt teeth, the pastel coloring—it was enough to send a quiver of revulsion down her spine. It was all she could do to keep from leaping to her feet and exclaiming. What was _she_ doing here? She bounced ahead of the male trio, her heels _click-clacking_ familiarly on the marble as she made her way to the fourth-most chair. She sat eloquently, her legs clearly tucked beneath her as she beamed across the table at them.

As the others trailed down the room to take their seats, she got a good look at them. Maxwell seemed drained and even more embittered than usual, dark circles embellishing the frames of his spectacles and a lackluster, greased sheen to his normally immaculate silver locks. He sat directly across from Sir Irons, his gaze almost indifferent in its immediate dismissal of them all. Next to him sat the man who'd accompanied him to the museum when they'd met physically for the first time, looking relatively unchanged. Father… Father Ricardo? Something along those lines, she knew. Then to his left was Paladin Anderson, who eyed the chair before inching towards Maxwell's as though to stand behind it.

Quicker than she could blink, the Stepford psychoanalyst grabbed his sleeve with her manicured claws and tugged him towards the red upholstered chair snugly fitted between her own and Father R's. He bit back a sound, possibly a sigh of his own, before squeezing into the chair as best he could. She saw his eyes cut sideways at her befeathered hat and a glimmer of pure disdain flickered in them.

"Well," she breathed, blinking at them with the unfaltering smile at full force. The guards shut the oaken doors again with a resounding _thud_ , leaving them all locked in together. "Isn't this a pleasant day? I must say, I've missed this English weather. The Italian climate is fine, but I'd have good London weather over Mediterranean anytime. Don't you agree?" When no one answered (Sir Penwood looked confused in regards to proper vehemence etiquette), her pink lips froze, plasticized.

"Well," she said again, her voice tighter. "I'm particularly happy to meet up with you again, Ms. Hellsing. I did enjoy picking your brain; I'd like to do it again sometime." _Not likely,_ she thought, but swallowed and kept her silence. Penwood stiffened next to her, the feeling traveling on the air itself rather than from contact. Walter shifted behind her and she let her right hand drop from her lap to reach discreetly behind her chair, motioning for him to stay put and silent. Sir Irons observed, collected his thoughts, and waited.

When she still didn't answer, the smile turned venomous. "Surely your _father_ taught you how to properly return a greeting, hmm?" She saw the paladin's eyes cut to the feathers on her hat again, this time with a mixture of puzzlement and understanding: confused as to _why_ she'd bring it up, but comprehending that it wouldn't be for any good intention. The air in the room thickened as she raised her eyes from the table and locked them with the woman's, her tongue running over her teeth as she fought the instinctive urge to be rash. _It would be unwise_ , she told herself, _to pick a fight with someone who knows—or thinks that she knows— more about you than anyone else in the room, save perhaps Walter_. _Things might be let out by a slip of that forked tongue._

She felt the gaze of the other Vatican members on her, as well as her own side of the table, but she was unable to look away from the eyes—not narrowed, dilated, or particularly emotional, yet still suggestive of some lurking danger lest she not respond in the positive.

"Good _morning_ , Miss… Angela, was it?" she replied, making sure everyone at the table knew each word dripped sarcasm and tasted of the foulest poison. It seemed to fuel the psychologist, whose chicklet teeth gleamed all the brighter in the lights from overhead. She turned to Sir Penwood, who was still looking poor and befuddled. "Miss Angela is the one who performed the exam on me at Her Majesty's behest," she explained. She'd already alluded before, when meeting him prior, to the utter absurdity of the questions she'd been forced to answer.

"Oh." Immediately his manner was colder, more distanced. "I see."

"Yes," Miss Angela purred, adjusting an addition to her outfit—a silver watch—as she licked her pink lips. "We had such a good chat. I—well, I shan't say more on _that_ ," she tittered. "Not just yet." She looked at her seatmates. "Does no one else have anything to say? I don't think it's very polite to sit here in silence, when we're guests in someone else's country." The men all looked at her with varying degrees of exasperation and incredulity before Father R— _Renaldo_ , that was it—laced his fingers.

"I beg my difference, _signora_. However," he continued, licking his thin lips, "He that is void of wisdom despiseth his neighbor: but a man of understanding holdeth his peace."

"Amen," Maxwell sighed, the sound almost relieved.

"Well then, how of you, Father Anderson? You have nothing to say?"

"I have plenty to say," he replied briskly. "But I've said my piece and it's done no' a hint o' good. Not yet, anyway." He set his jaw, ignoring the sharp _tick-tick_ of the woman's nails on the table.

"And it won't, either." Her voice was serene enough, but all the same Integra felt the words as though they were spat in a fierce hiss. "We've spoken."

"You've spoken, I've spoken, and Bishop Maxwell's spoken. We've done enough _speaking_ for everyone at this table." He seemed dead set on defying her, but Miss Angela didn't seem to notice—or care—about the obstinacy.

"Well!" she said yet again, this time with a little laugh as she turned her piercing eyes back to those who sat on the opposite side of the table. "I do apologize; it seems that we're not keen on courtesy today." She sighed in mock-defeat. "I thought that _some_ of us would like to make good first impressions."

"Tha' would imply we've not met before," Anderson cut in with a frown.

"Not as allies, you haven't." His nostrils flared, but the man kept silent. Maxwell looked across the table at Sir Irons, the twitch of his mouth suggesting the very thought of being allies made him nauseous. "Come now," Miss Angela purred, though she couldn't have seen his expression around Anderson's chest, "Our Holy Father is the same across the sea as he is in Rome. And His Holiness is so anxious to make this… _this_ work. We should be beneficial and help him in any way that we can. Isn't that right, Father? Don't you teach the children to work hand in hand for the common good?"

"Aye." The single syllable, ground between clenched teeth, sounded about as unbeneficial as a word could be.

"See? Good." Integra couldn't quite _see_ what they were all supposed to, but the paladin merely raised his eyes to the ceiling, his hand flat on the table. She recognized it as some sort of self-grounding, but the next question had her name in it and she was forced to pay attention. "Ms. Hellsing, I meant to ask you in Rome, but now will suffice. I suppose it is more curiosity than any real _design_ , but— how many soldiers does your Organization employ?" She was taken aback by the question, answering with another that left her mouth before her brain had processed fully.

"Country-based or worldwide?" She felt Sir Irons stiffen, only slightly, and Sir Penwood let out a cough, muffled into his sweaty unembroidered handkerchief.

"Oh, only in London. I know you have little bases across the Continent and such." She waved her hand dismissively.

"It varies." It was a valid excuse; depending on a variety of factors, the men milling around her yard would be anywhere from less than fifty to a perhaps over six or seven hundred. When Miss Angela continued to watch her, obviously waiting for something else, she added, "We always have as many as we need. No less, no more."

"Ah, yes." She adjusted her hat. "It seemed to have slipped my mind how good you are at deflecting questions. She'd give _you_ a run for your money, Father Anderson." The man muttered something that sounded like 'ask different questions', but didn't repeat it when her eyes cut to him. "I think, really, that—"

What she thought was rendered unimportant, for the moment, as the doors opened. They all scrambled to their feet, the right side of the table for the Queen of England, the left for the Pope. Both moved slowly, but with the self-assuredness that comes with advanced age. Maxwell's hand twitched in midair, as if he could help the Pope into his seat from his spot far down the table. Sir Irons held his breath until the Queen was genteelly peering down at them from her place of honor.

"Sir Irons… Sir Penwood… Sir Hellsing," she greeted calmly, before looking across the table. "And guests… welcome to England. I hope you found everything to your satisfaction so far." Even Ms. Angela seemed momentarily cowed by the presence of royalty, though even then the pleasantly plastic expression never even twitched out of place.

"Your Majesty." Sir Irons's voice seemed to boom and echo, though it was no louder than before. "Your… Holiness." The old man smiled and nodded, murmuring something. A young woman dressed in lilac stepped close to him, clearing her throat before peering down her hooked nose at them.

"His Holiness would like to thank you for showing both him and his staff hospitality. He would also like to extend his greetings to His Excellency Bishop Maxwell, Section Peter Sister Angela and Father Renaldo, and Section Iscariot Supervisor Father Alexander." She sounded like a melodic robot, her disinterest tempered by a strict professionalism. Integra didn't know the color significance of the lilac, but it seemed that this was the Pope's official translator today.

"Your Holiness," Maxwell simpered, bowing. Anderson kept his eyes politely downcast, and Father Renaldo merely looked exhausted.

"Well, let us get started." The Queen placed her hands in her lap. "First of all, I'd like to remind everyone here that this is a palace, not a boxing ring. Secondly, that this is an _official_ meeting, and I'd like to keep things on the peaceful side." She eyed them all, Catholic and Protestant alike, with equal censure. The translator whispered in the Pope's ear. "I believe Sister Angela is the one to start us off, correct?"

"Your Majesty, that's correct." She _tap-tapped_ up to the front, beaming first at the two leaders before looking down the length of the table at the rest. She let the silence linger, licking at the edges of her lipstick before lacing her fingers.

"As you all know, we as a group—forgive me," she said with a chuckle that grated Integra's nerves, "When I say group, I mean the Peters." She made a vague hand motion to Father Renaldo, who nodded serenely. "We as a group found it in the best interest of everyone that Ms. Hellsing be given a psychiatric evaluation. To further accommodate all parties in meetings of mutual peace, a thorough understanding of personalities is a must, you know." The feathers on her hat bobbed in time with her words.

"I'd like to pause briefly and extend a personal thank you to Ms. Hellsing, and everyone involved, for being such good sports on the matter." _If only I had my gun… I'd shoot that smile off her lips._ "Especially for coming all the way to Rome to let us do our jobs to the best of our abilities." Her nose wrinkled as she spoke, the way it might when speaking to a preschooler. "Thank you so much." She hesitated. "First, before we get into all of this," she waved her hands in circles, mascara-clumped eyelashes fluttering, "Renaldo? Could you indulge me a moment?"

"Of course," he answered, rising to his feet. _If he's a Peter, and she's head of the Peters… can one indulge their boss?_ Integra wondered, idly brushing at a piece of her bangs long enough to drape across the table.

"Great, just perfect." She waited until he joined her. " _Grazie mille, padre._ " He nodded. "Before we begin," she repeated, "could you offer us a little background on the scientific processes behind Peter's DNA testing?"

"Yes, of course." He cleared his throat, straightening his glasses on his nose. "I came to the Vatican during the final days of World War II, as a common psychologist. I had experience working with soldiers, especially injured ones. As a Christian, I found it easily to share my love and help them heal. I even converted a few souls to the Lord." He smiled, and it seemed to be directed at Anderson. "I was called to the Vatican to help with a… special case. It was a challenge, and I found myself intrigued by the cutting edge technology they were using."

"What sort of technology?" Sir Penwood asked, blinking curiously.

"Oh, various kinds," he deflected. "But we—I say we, though the Peters weren't fully fledged as a Special Division at that time—we were the first to pioneer DNA testing. We shared our knowledge with universities and laboratories around the world, though we kept certain aspects. There's a fine balance between the blood and the mind. Many mental diseases, from depression to schizophrenia, show up in some form in the body as well. I'm proud to say our teams in Rome have perfected the art. By using a small blood sample, they can show a person's medical history, current state of being, and even predict both moods and mindset. It's astounding, how far we've come since those early years."

"It's certainly a medical marvel," Ms. Angela agreed, her hand resting on the father's shoulder. "Thank you, Renaldo. Please, stay up here for a moment longer, if you will."

"Of course."

"Like Father Renaldo said, the scientists at Peter are hard at work bridging the gap between physical and mental being. We've even harnessed some of the capabilities of life itself," she sighed happily, her eyes looking over Anderson with a strange glimmer of greed. "Of course, not so far as to match Our Creator. This leads me right into the next point: our Ms. Hellsing." Integra almost cringed at the thought of being her _anything_.

"As standard procedure, we gave Ms. Hellsing a blood test along with her usual psych evaluation. We look for certain things: white blood count, vitamin deficiencies, and hydration levels, to start. Any number of these can be off, and make a person feel absolutely _terrible_." She pursed her lips with another preschool teacher grimace. "We also check her very DNA sequence. Some of our most advanced technology can do it in a little under five seconds."

"Five seconds, you say!" Sir Irons seemed impressed.

"Oh, yes. No time to twiddle our thumbs over in Rome." She winked. "Among the normal genetic variants, the supercomputer runs an automatic search for a specialized chromosome coupling that contains a certain strand. We, for lack of a better term, refer to it as Strand R." Anderson took a heavy breath, folding his glasses and twisting them around and around between his hands. "Father Renaldo?"

"Strand R is a very odd chromosome. It doesn't behave like others." The old man rubbed at his chin. "We've been studying it since the 1950s, though we were indirectly associated with it since the early 1800s."

"What does it do?" Integra asked, one finger tapping the table through her bangs.

"Strand R doesn't like to be in the spotlight. 98% of the time, it's a recessive gene. That means, as you can well guess, only 2% of people in the world have dominant Strand R genes. Females can get dominant Strand R from a male line, but it can only be passed through the father. It can only be passed to offspring if the father has a dominant Strand R, and the mother has a specialized gene code that allows Strand R to be dominant. We call this the Strand R-recessive gene, since it seems to only become recessive when paired with a Strand R-dominant. Otherwise, this Strand R-recessive gene becomes dominant in Strand R's place."

"I… I see." Sir Penwood looked lost, but when he saw both Integra and Sir Irons nodding along, he followed suit.

"This Strand R… when in contact with certain chemicals…." Renaldo paused, searching for words.

"Pardon my French, but: it mutates like hell." Ms. Angela let out a tinkling laugh. "Am I not right, Renaldo?"

"That's certainly one way to put it." Renaldo frowned. "In our—experiments, if you will—we learned that only certain people can become Regenerators. In the 1950s, we learned that those people are Strand R-dominant. Thus the name." He nodded at Anderson. "There sits one of the 2%."

"What happens if they're not?" Integra stopped tapping. "R-dominant, I mean." Renaldo and Ms. Angela shared a look of mutual sympathetic horror.

"Ye dinnae want to know." Anderson piped up for the first time, green eyes boring across the table into hers. She met them steadily for a moment before turning back to the pair at the head of the table.

"We have case pictures," Renaldo faltered, "but they're quite graphic. The body isn't made to withstand that sort of chemical process. It quite literally falls apart in a variety of ways, without the gene to absorb most of the side effects."

"I see."

"We were very lucky to find Father Anderson. Our old Regenerator, Father Juan Pablo, was beginning to decline. We needed another of the 2%, and we very nearly didn't find one. It was pure happenstance… or Divine Intervention." Ms. Angela nodded as he continued to speak. "After his death, Pope Pious XII declared that the next Regenerator shouldn't be sought out, but rather… born." Renaldo squinted behind his glasses, and then placed his hands together. "Since the gene passes through the male line, we were assured that another search wouldn't be needed. That was before, however, we learned about Strand R-recessive."

"We've searched for three decades to find one. It turns out that it's easier to find a Strand R-dominant!" Ms. Angela crowed. "Who knew?! And then…" She was stepping closer and closer to the table, that greedy look in her eye once more. She stopped behind Integra's chair, and before she could move she felt those manicured hands pressing on her hair, brushing the skin of her cheeks. "Perfection," she murmured, a miser fawning over coveted gold.

"W-what?" Integra stumbled to her feet, her mind strangely numb. Walter was pushing himself between Ms. Angela and her body, Sir Irons hissing something about 'preposterous!' and Sir Penwood reaching for her, his voice echoing strangely as he asked if she were alright. She could still feel the nails on her cheeks, tingling on her scalp from where they had rested. Father Renaldo was still speaking.

"You're the first woman we've found in over thirty years with the proper Strand R-recessive gene. A true rarity."

"A beautiful specimen," Ms. Angela purred. "A match from Heaven."

"No…" Her own voice sounded small and far away. Sir Penwood guided her back to her chair, but she couldn't force her legs to bend so that she could sit. Walter was arguing, or trying to argue, but with whom? "Your Majesty?" At the sound of the words, the room fell silent.

"Sir Hellsing." The old woman's voice was gentle, but firm. "It's no surprise to you that children—heirs—are a necessity for a woman in your position. Your father waited so long to have you… and by complete accident at that. It's imperative that you begin earlier than he did. We've talked it over and…we decided."

"His Holiness agrees that it would be a most welcome bond between the Church of England and the Catholic Church." The lilac woman coughed politely. "Strengthened ties would aid both parties in their ultimate goal: purification of the world."

"So I'm to be…" She found her words, and they were buoyed up from the depths of her chest by pure anger. "My life is to be sold off to a foreign legion like some duchess?"

"This is absurd!" Sir Penwood fumed. "Of course you won't!"

"Sir Penwood." The Queen's words weren't spoken harshly, but they seemed to be. "Queen Victoria had nine children. Do you believe she felt less when hers married?"

"I—"

"Married?" Integra repeated, the word settling in her stomach like a rock. "What do you mean, married?"

"You can't have children without marrying!" Ms. Angela squeaked, shocked. "What a notion!"

"And you have nothing to say to this?" She turned now on Anderson, who unfolded his glasses and slid them back on slowly.

"Father Anderson, along with Bishop Maxwell and the rest of us, follow the orders of His Holiness." Ms. Angela reached for her again, but she was able to evade the clutching pink claws. "It won't be instantaneous," she crooned in what was meant to be a soothing manner. "And you'll have me to help you. I've personally been assigned by His Holiness to the case, along with my full team, including Renaldo here. You'll follow the same procedures as though you two were just Vatican agents matched the workers of St. V."

"If the Cupids couldn't match me, I dinnae see how ye think ye do better here." He spoke to Ms. Angela, but his eyes were on her. She stared at the open disdain in them, feeling somewhat better to know that she wasn't the only one whose arm was being twisted.

"You bite your tongue," Ms. Angela sing-songed, blinking rapidly. "We spoke about this, remember?"

"I remember." Anderson unlaced his fingers, placing palms flat on the table as he stood to loom over them all. "I remember too well."

"But Your Majesty." It was bad form to open conversation with the Queen, but this was… dire. "One child, even a child from—" The word _him_ lay on her tongue, bitter and wretched. "One child can't run both Iscariot and the Hellsing Organization." The Queen chuckled.

"I daresay, Sir Hellsing: if you only mean to go through childbirth once, I would pray for twins."

* * *

 **Afterword** : It's been a long time a'comin, a long time a'comin yeaaaaaahhhhhhh


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